


Spirited Away

by VagrantWriter



Series: Spirited Away [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Fae & Fairies, Forced Crossdressing, Forced Feminization, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Blood, Multi, Non-Consensual Kissing, Period-Typical Sexism, Physical Abuse, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-05-20 17:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 34,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14898929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: Theon's mother always warned him not to get involved with fairies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prologue of my new project, a Thramsay/Throbb fic based ~~fairy~~ fairly loosely on Cinderella. Though I'm not tagging them, you can also expect hints of Theon/Sansa, Theon/Jon, and Theon/Jeyne, if not more.

She lay still as death. Red hair spilled from between the bars of the cage like blood.

Theon swallowed thickly as he reached out for it, hand shaking. It would be easier than he thought, to cut a lock of it and run. It wasn’t like Maron and Rodrik would know she hadn’t actually _given_ it to him. She might even be dead, in which case it was a moot point.

Despite himself, he gagged at the thought. Had Baelish really done it? Killed his pet after only a few days? Surely the fair folk weren’t so fragile. Baelish had gone on at some length about how difficult it had been to find her, let alone capture her and bring her back for the villagers to gawk at. She was the crown jewel of his keep, his wealth and influence made manifest. And yet her dress, once obviously a lady’s gown, had been ripped and torn, and cuts and bruises littered the indecently exposed skin underneath. She was dirty, and smelled it. It seemed fairies were not meant to be caged by mortals.

Poor thing.

Theon hurried to stamp the pity out of his heart, lest his brothers offer to do it for him later. He’d save his pity for Baelish. If the fae found out he had murdered one of their own, there would be nothing on heaven or earth to protect him from their wrath. Best to get what he’d come for and be done with it.

He grabbed a hank of her hair—smoother and silkier than anything he’d ever felt before—and was startled by a soft whimpering.

Not dead, then.

She lifted her head with great effort. Blue eyes glowed in the dark, beseeching. “P…please.” A small voice, hoarse. “Help?”

Theon stared at her a moment. Then tightened his hold on her hair and drew from his pocket the razor he had brought for just this occasion. She was alive, but that didn’t change anything for him.

She whined and drew back as the razor caught the light of the dungeon’s lone torch.

“Be still,” he hissed. “I’m not going to hurt you. I only need a bit of your hair.”

“My…hair?” Her brows drew together in confusion.

“So my brothers won’t keep saying I am a maid who prefers men.” _And beat me bloody for it_ , he thought, but she didn’t need to know that part. His hand trembled as he struggled to steady the razor.

“Please,” she repeated. “You have to help me.” She reached out a pale hand that trembled as badly as his own, and he caught of a glimpse of an iron manacle around her wrist.

He sucked in a breath. He’d seen what iron could do to Jon simply by brushing his skin. It left welts that lingered for days. And Jon was merely a changeling, not a true fae by some people’s reckoning. To be clapped in iron manacles…

No, it was not his problem.

He forced his hand steady.

“My name…is Sansa,” she said. “I am a princess…of the Seelie Court.”

That stopped him short.

“You spoke of brothers…I have brothers as well.” She attempted to raise herself up on her elbows, but even that was too much effort for her. She collapsed back to the floor of the cage, shoulders trembling. “They will reward you for freeing me.”

Theon paused and lowered the razor. “I can’t.”

“Please.”

“I don’t…” He looked over his shoulder. The guards didn’t know he was in here.

It was none of his business. As long as he didn’t get involved, it was none of his business.

“If you do not help me, I will die.”

He believed her.

“I don’t have the key.”

With a keening noise, she lowered her forehead to the floor. A soft and steady stream of sobs came out muffled.

Theon gritted his teeth. _Damn women. Damn women and their tears_. He couldn’t even tell anymore if the thought was his own or his father’s.

“Don’t cry.” He flipped the razor closed. “I can pick the lock.”

And just like that, the waterworks were off. She lifted her head again, a hopeful look on her face.

_Damn women_ , Theon cursed. Sometimes—though very rarely—he wished his brothers were right and he _did_ prefer men, exclusively at least. A pretty face was a pretty face, but when it came attached to a woman, you could bet there were some mind games in store. Doubly so—nay, triply so if that pretty face was attached to a fairy.

_Damn fairies_ , Theon cursed as he got up to his knees and felt around for the cage’s lock. It was a decent lock, but not something he couldn’t handle. He flipped his razor around, so that the hooked handle became a lock pick. A fisherman’s son probably shouldn’t have a tool like this, let alone know how to use it, but it harkened back to the days—not so long ago—when the Greyjoys had been known as petty thieves. The pick/razor had been a gift from his dear uncle, who still clung to the family legacy.

The fairy girl—Princess Sansa, he supposed—watched him with eager eyes as he fitted the pick into place. That was difficult part. In the semi-darkness, he could use his ear and the slight vibrations of the pick to tell when he had hit the correct combination.

The padlock clicked. Theon pulled it off and let the door swing open. Sansa collapsed outwards.

Theon caught her and discovered she was shackled not only at the wrists, but also the neck and ankles. All iron, of course. Theon lowered her to the ground, mindful of the torn dress, and began work on each manacle. These were easier than the door, but he winced every time he managed to pry one off, as the iron took bits of her flesh with it and left blackened burn marks behind.

“Can you stand?” he asked as he threw the last one away.

She started to get to her feet but stumbled. “I…I don’t think I can.”

Theon sighed. Well, he’d already made it his business. He knelt down. “Climb on my back.”

Without any further pressing, she did, wrapping her arms around his neck. He used his arms to support her legs and then stood. She was remarkably light, weighing less than a child. Then he headed for the secret tunnel he’d used to sneak into the keep, a secret passed down from Greyjoy to Greyjoy, back when their family occupation had been less-than-reputable.

Princess Sansa was silent the entire time. Her chest rose and fell against his back, her breaths shallow. She was not in a good way.

The secret tunnel came out in the forest, behind the tall rock face hemming the north end of the village. It was twilight, and the chirp of crickets filled the air.

Theon shrugged off the chill of evening and continued on. “Where should I take you?”

“Carry me…to the trees.”

There was a thick copse of trees up ahead. Theon carried her there. Immediately, the sound of crickets vanished. As did the wind and rustling of leaves. The air became oppressively thick with energy, almost as if before a storm. Everything became so unnaturally still that Theon barely dared breathe.

“What now?”

But Sansa didn’t answer. He could no longer feel the rise and fall of her chest, and when he hurriedly set her down, she was deathly pale and unresponsive. In a panic, he began to shake her.

“No,” he muttered aloud. “Don’t do that. Don’t die. I got involved, damn it. You can’t beg me to help and then die when I do.” He smacked her cheek.

She moaned.

“Good.” He let out a breath. “Tell me what to do.”

“We’ll take it from here.”

Theon’s head shot up, startled at the voice. His immediate thought: _I’ve been caught_.

But it was not one of Baelish’s men standing in front of him, but rather a tall young man, ethereally handsome. Slightly pointed ears poked out from bright red hair—the same shade as the princess’s. He wore a diadem of cold diamonds. He regarded Theon with glowing blue eyes, and Theon realized this was one of the brothers Princess Sansa had spoken of. And that he had just been slapping her a moment ago.

He released her body and backed away, hands up to show he meant no harm. “I…I was saving her. She wasn’t responding and I—”

The fairy prince raised a hand, and Theon fell silent.

“You saved our sister,” he said. “We are grateful.”

“It was…” Theon swallowed nervously. “Nothing.”

A redheaded boy riding a wolf came forward, as if from thin air. Or the shadows themselves. He dismounted the freakishly large beast and lifted Sansa onto its back. Then, with only a nod to Theon, he turned and disappeared back into the trees he had materialized from, along with Sansa and the wolf.

Theon realized he was not about to be smitten by fairy magic. At least, he thought so, until the prince came towards him, one hand held out. Theon took an instinctive step backwards and flinched when a cold, smooth hand brushed his cheek.

“Truly,” the prince said, “thank you.”

Theon looked into the otherworldly eyes. His heart hammered so far up in his throat he could feel it on his tongue, keeping him from speaking.

“I wish to give you something, as a token of our appreciation.” The hand rounded his chin. “I know Sansa would reward you herself, but seeing her current condition…”

Theon swallowed around the heart in his throat. “Will she be alright?”

The prince smiled. “She will be, now that she has been returned. We will see to it.” His glowing eyes seemed to unfocus, looking past him. “We’ve been looking for her for days. If you hadn’t brought her here when you did…” He trailed off.

“Baelish truly hurt her, didn’t he?”

The prince’s hands clenched into fists. “Baelish.” He spat the name. “This is the man who stole my sister, misused her?”

“He’s the lord of our village.”

“Not for long.” Robb tightened his fists, then abruptly shifted. The faraway look vanished from his eyes, and his smile was once against kind. His eyes glowed with gratitude. Theon’s heart pattered. “But enough of that. Don’t you want your reward?”

Theon opened his mouth to answer, then quickly closed it. His mind raced with all the stories of fairies he’d ever heard in his life. Stories that told him accepting gifts from fairies was a bad idea. “Might I _request_ a gift instead?”

The prince’s smile turned tight. Perhaps, Theon worried, he had overstepped his bounds. But when he spoke, his voice did not seem unpleased. “Very well. Ask what you will. Whatever it is, I will grant it.”

“I want…”

What did he want? He wanted his brothers to stop beating him. He wanted his father and sister to stop berating him. He wanted his mother to regain her senses. He wanted away from his family. He wanted his family to accept him. He wanted Baelish’s position as lord of the village. He wanted to leave the village far behind him and never look back.

“I want a lock of your hair.”

“My hair?” The prince blinked and ran a hand through his red hair.

“You said you’d grant my request.”

The prince smiled. “I did.” He held out his hand. “The razor in your pocket.”

Theon didn’t ask how he knew about that.

The prince took it and cut off a red curl, then handed both back to Theon. “The Starks are in your debt,” he said as Theon curled his fingers tightly over the curl. “My name is Robb, Winter Prince of the Seelie Court. If you are ever in need, seek me out here, in the forest. I will come.”

Theon nodded numbly. He found himself unable to say anything as Prince Robb turned and disappeared the way the boy on the wolf had.

 

***

 

The next day, Petyr Baelish disappeared. One of his serving women told that when he did not come down for breakfast, she grew concerned and went up to his room to wake him. His bed was unmade and had obviously been slept in, but there was no sign of the master anywhere. When she pulled back the covers, she found a fat cockroach scurrying about and quickly smashed it. No one was sure where Baelish had gone.

In the weeks and months following, Theon would often go to the copse, in the woods beyond the village, hoping to find Robb or Sansa. But eventually it was someone _else_ who found _him_.


	2. Chapter 2

Theon scrambled through the undergrowth, hoping the thorny bushes would stop his brothers in their tracks. He could hear their whooping and hollering. “Oh, little The~on. Come on out.”

From behind a boulder, _Not on your life_. First they would give him a thrashing, and then their father would give him a thrashing for _letting_ them.

He shouldn’t have been talking to Jon. That was really what had set them off. Never mind that he hadn’t been making advances on Jon—well, not this time, at least. He’d only wanted to know if the changeling knew how to summon the fair folk. Turned out he didn’t.

“We’ll go easier on you if you come out and take it like a man!” Maron hollered. “Or stay hidden and prove you take it like a woman!”

Theon retreated deeper into the woods, to his now familiar hiding spot among the copse of trees. Perhaps it was superstition from that night, but he always felt protected here. As if Maron and Rodrik couldn’t find him.

He leaned, panting, against a broad tree. And waited.

His brothers’ yelling faded away, and he knew they’d grown bored with their game. That didn’t mean it was safe for him to emerge.

He shoved his hand into his pocket and gripped the lock of hair there. “I want out of this place,” he muttered. Then, raising his voice, “Take me away from here. That’s what I want.” Not that it had worked for the past six months he’d been coming here. “Can you hear me? You said you would come if I needed you, if I sought you out. I want you to take me away from this village, Robb, Winter Prince of the Seelie Court!”

His voice echoed off the trees.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you it was unwise to summon the fair folk?”

Theon whipped around. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, and yet there was a young man, seated on a rock. His eyes glowed an icy blue like Robb’s, but his hair was dark and he wore a bloodstone earring instead of a diadem. His ears were as rounded as a mortal’s. He grinned mischievously at Theon.

“Wh…who are you?” Theon asked uncertainly. This young man was most certainly not Prince Robb…unless he had put a glamour on himself? No, that didn’t seem likely. Robb had a kind face, even when Theon had refused his initial present. The malicious glee brimming in the newcomer’s eyes sent shivers along his skin.

“Me?” The young man launched himself off of the rock and began to pace around Theon, hands tucked casually behind his back. “I may not be who you’re looking for, but I can help you out.”

Theon turned his head to follow the newcomer’s movements. “Who are you?”

“Ah, rude of me.” He stopped his pacing and thrust out his hand. “Ramsay Bolton.”

Theon looked at the hand but didn’t take it. If this man was a fairy, he wanted to know before he went shaking hands.

With a disappointed sigh, the self-proclaimed Ramsay Bolton withdrew his hand. “I may not be that goodie-goodie Robb Stark, but I’m willing to help you, Theon.”

“How do you—?”

“Because I made a point to learn the name of the mortal who comes here every day looking for Robb Stark.”

Theon looked at the ground. “I don’t come here every day.”

Ramsay shrugged. “Near enough.”

He moved in close.

Theon moved back.

Ramsay’s lip twitched, but he quickly schooled his face. “I can help you just as much as he can, you know.”

Theon folded his arms across his chest. “Who says I want _your_ help?” he challenged.

“Because you’re desperate.”

Theon couldn’t deny that, and this time didn’t move when Ramsay stepped in close.

“I can take you away from this village. Into the fairy realm, where I live. So far away from here. Your family will never find you there.”

Theon opened his mouth. “I can’t—”

“Why not?” Ramsay interrupted. “Because the fairy realm is a scary place? Is that what they say in the village?”

Everyone knew the stories of the fair folk stealing mortals away to the fairy realm. These stories weren’t so specific on what happened there, just that the mortals were never seen or heard from again. These stories had terrified Theon as a child, but thinking of it now…

Theon narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Why would you help me?”

“Because I owe you my gratitude and you deserve a reward better than a clump of hair.”

“What?”

“You may not know it, but the fae girl you rescued is my betrothed.”

“Your…be…”

Ramsay tilted his head in mock humility. “Sansa Stark and I are to be married, to join the Seelie and Unseelie Court.”

“You’re Unseelie?” Theon asked. That confirmed that he was one of the fair folk, though not one of the benevolent ones.

Ramsay grinned a wide, toothy grin. “I do appreciate you saving my betrothed, so I would like to thank you.” He put his hands on his hips in an oddly suggestive manner. “You could join my Court. You would be treated like a prince.”

A shudder went up Theon’s back, and not an unpleasant one. He’d always wanted…

“You would take me away from here?”

The hand that came to caress his face was warm and set his nerves tingling. “Far away. You would be so happy with me, Theon, living in my castle in the fairy realm. You would be welcomed. We do not judge there.”

Theon looked down at his boots. It was tempting, but the stories…

“What’s the trick?”

“Trick?”

“There must be some trick. Some…stipulation you’re hiding from me.”

Ramsay cupped Theon’s chin and forced his head up. “No trick. The only stipulation is that if you wish to come to the fairy realm with me…you must accept my geas.”

“Your geas?” Theon repeated the old word his mother had told him long ago. “You want to put me under a spell?”

“Only a spell that binds you to your word. If you promise to obey me always, I will take you to the fairy realm.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. It was too vague, and his mother had always told him that if he were to make a deal with a fairy, it must be as specific as possible, leave no wiggle room for interpretation.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling away from Ramsay’s grasp. “I can’t.”

Ramsay frowned. “Robb won’t come for you, you know. He’s already forgotten you, the man who saved his sister.”

No, Theon was sure he hadn’t.

“I…I have to go.”

“What, back to your brothers?”

“It’s getting late.”

Ramsay let out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But my offer is always open. If you should change your mind…”

Theon nodded and then tore from the copse.

The sun was beginning to set as he reached the village, his feet taking him there from habit alone. His mind was preoccupied, considering his conversation with the fae. He would be a fool to accept such a deal, the rational part of his brain told him. Unfortunately, that had always been the smaller part of his brain.

“Theon.”

Jolted out of his thoughts, he abruptly remembered that Maron and Rodrik were out for a piece of his hide. He jerked back, until he saw the sad, worried face of Jon staring at him from behind the post. Of course, his habit-induced wandering had taken him by the tanner’s, where Jon could often be found moping when he wasn’t working.

He was as pretty as any girl in the village, with his pouty lips and dark curls that covered his pointed ears. And he was possibly the only one in the village whose mother hated him more than Theon’s father did him. How could she not? He was not hers. Just some changeling left in her child’s crib.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. “I saw your brothers come out of the woods…”

Theon snorted. Where did Jon fucking Snow get off on feeling sorry for him?

“Were you worried for me, Snow?”

“I always worry about you when you go into the woods.”

“What are you, a woman? What business is of yours where I go?”

“Don’t talk to the fae.” Jon’s hands tightened on the post, and it almost seemed he was trying to hide behind it. “It won’t end well.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Theon turned away from him, towards his house. “I can take care of myself.”

Jon let him go without any backtalk. Just a muttered, “I hope so.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Prince Robb!”

The cold air of night stung Theon’s face, his father’s slap still hot against his cheek.

“Princess Sansa!”

Tears threatened, but he fought them back. He would not cry like a woman.

_Are you a woman, boy? Or a girl child? Is that why you run to your mother at every turn?_ His father’s hand, rough in his hair, forcing him to look at Alannys, unaware of the fight that had broken out at the table around her. She ate her dinner one pea at a time. _She can’t help you, boy. And don’t you dare come to me. Do I have one daughter or two_? Asha looking up indignantly. _Your sister is more of a man than you will ever be._

His breathing came in rapid gasps, turning to steam in the air. His lungs burned as he burst through the ring of trees into the copse.

“Robb! Sansa!” He screamed as loud as his burning lungs could manage. “I need you. You said you would come if I needed you.” A sob caught in his throat; he forced it back down.

His father, casting him off as quickly and as roughly as he’d grabbed him. _Now…get out of my sight._

So he had.

“Take me away from here.” His voice echoed through the trees. “Take me into the fairy realm. I don’t care.”

He sank against a tree, face buried in his hands.

A whispered, “Ramsay.”

“You called?”

Theon was only slightly startled this time, and mostly because of how quickly Ramsay had responded. He lifted his gaze to find the fae looming over him, smug smirk on his face.

“You’ve reconsidered my offer.” It wasn’t a question.

“I…I want to go with you,” Theon stammered.

Ramsay’s smirk turned into a grin. “I must admit, you changed your mind faster than I thought you would.” He reached out and brushed his hand gently against Theon’s cheek, where his father’s slap still stung. “You accept my geas?”

“I…I do.” Theon nodded vigorously. “Just take me away from here. I want to go to Fairy with you.”

“Shh.” The hand trailed to his lips, silencing him. Ramsay was so warm against the late autumn chill, Theon wanted to lean in closer. “Do you, truly?” He placed a knee between Theon’s legs and bent in closer, breath ghosting hotly against his ear. Theon shuddered with some unnamed need. “If you break the geas, you will die.”

“I don’t care. Anywhere is better than here.”

Ramsay smirked against his temple, he was that close now. “Kiss me?”

“Kiss you?”

“To accept the terms of my geas.”

“But we’re both—”

“Do you honestly believe anyone cares about that in Fairy?” Ramsay’s hand gently guided him so they were face to face. “Kiss me, Theon, and I can take you away from all of this.”

Theon nodded. The rational part of his brain itched, but his face still stung and Ramsay’s nearness sent a thrilling sensation shooting from his stomach downwards. He leaned in and pressed their lips together.

A harsh wind kicked up, like the gust of a storm, blowing leaves and twigs into Theon’s face.

Theon pulled away, but Ramsay pulled him back, crushing their lips together as the wind howled louder and louder. Caught off guard, Theon gasped, and a tongue plunged into his mouth, viciously, hungrily. With a slight suctioning, Theon felt his breath being drawn from his lungs, and he had a sudden panicked thought. Stories of fae cats who stole the breath of babes in their cribs. Water fae who drew sailors from their boats and drowned them in the sea.

_Am I going to die?_

Ramsay continued to plunder his mouth while the wind worked itself into a crescendo.

_I might die._

His knees buckled. Lightheaded. Strong hands on his shoulders steadied him. Theon closed his eyes and leaned into Ramsay.

_No one will miss me_.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the wind died away, leaving only an eerie silence behind it. Ramsay drew back and Theon found himself able to breathe again, though no less lightheaded. He staggered, and Ramsay wrapped an arm around his waist to keep him upright.

The scene around them had radically changed. Gone was the forest, the copse of trees. A snow-covered field stretched ahead of them—and behind when Theon turned his head. The village seemed to have vanished, and in its place stood a castle made of black stone. Larger than Baelish’s keep, its twisted spinnerets curled upwards into a gray-clouded sky.

Ramsay chuckled, and Theon realized he’d been staring with his mouth open. “This is…the fairy realm?”

“My corner of it at least.” Without warning, he lifted Theon into his arms. Theon yelped. He hadn’t been lifted off his feet since he was a child, and the motion immediately made him feel the same sense of smallness and powerlessness. Ramsay chuckled again, into his ear. “You are cute.”

“I’m not,” Theon protested, swinging his legs uselessly as Ramsay tucked his body in close. “I don’t need to be carried.” Nonetheless, he found himself clinging to Ramsay, arms wrapped around his neck.

“Shh,” Ramsay murmured. “We’re not in the mortal realm anymore. You don’t need to pretend to be strong around me.”

“But I am—”

“Shh,” Ramsay hushed again, with the cadence of a patient mother. “You don’t have to be what your family wants you to be. Not here.”

Something that Theon had never felt before welled up in his chest. It felt like some wounded creature keening as it made its way scratchily up his throat. He buried his face in Ramsay’s chest to silence it.

Ramsay patted his hair. “You can cry, little one.”

_Little one_.

He should hate being so patronized, but…it felt nice. To be met with softness instead of a slap, with protection instead of hostility and violence. And he realized he didn’t feel half so small in Ramsay’s arms as he did during his father’s belittling lectures. He let the tears come, let the wounded creature cry out, and all the while Ramsay held him.

“There, there now,” Ramsay said, beginning towards the castle. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after. The end.
> 
> In all seriousness, we are now entering the Thramsay portion of this story. Relevant warnings will be posted at the beginning chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay sending up a heap of red flags in this one.

“You’re in Fairy now,” Ramsay said as he posed Theon in front of the mirror. Theon, for his part, allowed himself to be posed, like a doll—arms here, legs apart, tilt your head. “You need to dress the part.”

His hands rolled over Theon’s doublet, a perfectly serviceable garment for a member of the merchant class. But…it could always be fancier.

“I’ll have my tailor make something for you. Something in…red, maybe. Or gold.”

Theon nodded enthusiastically, feeling the rough fabric of his doublet and imagining it was fine velvet instead. “Black. With gold trim.”

In the mirror, Ramsay’s grin fell into a displeased pout. “You think you know better than me?”

“I…” Theon dropped his arms to his side. “Sorry. Of course you know better than me.”

“That’s right.” Ramsay grabbed his chin roughly. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. Though…” His pout became thoughtful as his eyes raked over Theon’s form. “Black might be a good look for you. Alright, we’ll go with that.”

He stepped back and clapped his hands. A cadaverous-looking man appeared from out of the shadows in the corner. Theon hadn’t even realized he was there.

“Skinner,” Ramsay said, hands on hips, “make something nice for our new guest. Black and gold.”

The thin man bowed and slunk back into the shadows. Theon wondered what sort of tailor had a name like Skinner.

“Doesn’t he need to take my measurements?”

“Not when you’ve been doing what Skinner has been doing for three hundred years.”

“Three hundred years?” Theon mouthed the words in disbelief. Though, in thinking, the fair folk were notoriously long-lived. Mortals were so-named because they were prone to natural death. Turning from the mirror, “How old are _you_?”

“Eighteen.”

“Hundred?”

“No, just eighteen.” Ramsay pulled Theon away from the mirror, circled his hands around his hips, buried his face in the crook of his neck.

“You’re as old as I am,” Theon noted, but lost that thought as Ramsay began to kiss his throat. “Mmm.” It felt nice, to be touched with care. “Does…does your fiancée mind you doing that?”

“Doing what?” Ramsay kissed behind his ear.

“That,” he gasped, pulling away before his knees could give out under him. “Kissing someone else, let alone a man.”

“I told you.” Ramsay pulled him back, hands cupping his face. “We don’t care about that in Fairy. Man, woman…some of us are both.” He chuckled. “Some of us are part beast.”

“But she’s to be your wife.”

“She’s not my wife _yet_.”

“But won’t she—”

“She doesn’t tell me what to do.” His grasp became harder. “No one tells me what to do.”

“I…I just wanted to make sure it was alright,” Theon stammered.

“Rule number one of our geas.” Ramsay’s eyes stabbed into him. “Don’t ever tell me what to do.”

“I won’t, I promise.” Theon winced. Ramsay’s grip was beginning to hurt. “I’m sorry.”

Ramsay continued to study him for a moment, as if trying to sniff out a lie. He must not have found anything amiss, because he released his hold and patted Theon’s cheek, once again all gentle touches. “Come with me. I’ll show you to your room.”

Theon followed meekly behind Ramsay as they left the dressing room. He shouldn’t have acted so familiar around the fae, he knew that. And anyway, a slightly sore jaw was better than the bloody lip or a bruised eye he would have received back home. Really, he was lucky Ramsay was willing to be so patient with him.

The castle was just as dark as it appeared from the outside, with hallways so narrow that it was impossible to walk two abreast. Theon was content to walk several paces behind, marveling at the architecture. The high ceilings echoed with their footsteps until they came to a door made of blackened wood—just like all the others he’d seen so far—with an oversized brass handle. Ramsay opened this door and ushered him in.

Theon squinted against the darkness of the room within. Ramsay strode across the stone floor to the window at the far wall and drew back the curtains. Light came streaming in, the snowy fields outside giving it a cold brilliance. Theon blinked against it until his eyes adjusted.

“This…this is _my_ room?”

It was bigger than the room he’d shared with his brothers—no, it was bigger than his old house’s kitchen and living area put together. He could only imagine the shade of envious green his father would turn at seeing the gold-plated furniture, the rich tapestries on the walls, the thick furs on the floor. The centerpiece was the overly large canopied bed, with its purple sheets and gold tassels.

Ramsay came up behind him and put his hands on Theon’s shoulders. “I told you you would be treated like a prince here.”

“And we will dress you like one as well.”

Theon jumped as high as he could when the oddly named Skinner appeared from the shadows in the corner. The tailor smirked at him in a way that suggested that, no matter how long he had lived, he would never tire of frightening mortals that way. He held something draped in his arms, which he held out for Theon.

“Your attire, sir.”

“But…” Theon’s mouth hurried to voice his confusion. “We only just—how did you—when did you—?”

Skinner gave him a rictus grin full of yellowed teeth. “I work fast, sir.”

“Thank you, Skinner,” Ramsay said, taking the clothes from the tailor and holding them out to Theon. “You are dismissed.”

Again, Skinner bowed and melted away into the shadows.

Theon was thoroughly unnerved.

“Why don’t you try your news clothes on?” Ramsay suggested.

“Al…right,” Theon agreed, trying to shake off the unease. He popped the button at the collar of his doublet and gave Ramsay a pointed look.

Ramsay made no move to leave the room.

Theon coughed uncomfortably. “Are you…?”

“Are you suddenly shy?”

Heat flared under his collar. “N-no,” he stammered. “Of course not.” He began to unbutton his doublet in earnest, telling himself that the shaking of his hands was simply the result of Skinner’s unsettling arrival and departure. He had often dressed and undressed in the presence of his brothers. Though they were keen to point out how thin he was, how he never seemed able to put on true muscle and accused him of being a lay-about because of it. They also enjoyed laughing at the fashion trends he adopted from the big cities. Never mind that the village girls loved it, somehow it was more evidence that he was no true man at all.

Memories of their taunts made him all the warmer, and he hurried to strip, to be done with it quickly so he could be dressed once more. He was down to his small clothes when he felt a strong hand grip his wrist, then the other. His head shot up in slightly panicked confusion to see Ramsay staring at him, eyes heavily lidded and nostrils flared. He seemed like a man in a trance.

“Wh-what…?”

“Don’t hurry,” he rasped. One hand released his wrist and came to Theon’s bare chest, drawing a long, slow line down to his stomach. Theon shuddered. “Your body is nothing to be ashamed of.”

The hungry scrutiny of those eyes was at once flattering and terrifying. No one had ever looked at him that _intensely_ before.

“Let me look at you.” Ramsay drew Theon’s arms away, displaying his barely clothed body. The air was cold, Theon realized, as well as the stones beneath his naked feet, and he shivered. Ramsay licked his lips. “You are beautiful.”

“Thank…you?” No one had ever called him beautiful before. Not as a compliment, at least.

Ramsay’s face fell, just as it had in the mirror. “Why do you say it like that? Like it’s a question?”

“What?”

“You think I can’t judge for myself whether you deserve a compliment or not?”

“N-no, of course not.”

“You’re doing it again.”

Theon’s heart shrank back like a frightened animal to the corner of its cage. “D-doing what?”

“Questioning me.”

Theon’s throat bobbed, swallowing to give him time to think before he spoke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Rule number two of my geas,” Ramsay interrupted. “Don’t ever _question_ me.” He gripped Theon’s wrists tightly. “Understood?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Good.” Ramsay released him. “Now, try on your clothes. I want to make sure they fit for the fairy ball tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going with a more Elizabethan/Tudor style for the fashion in this fic. And because I'm too ~~lazy~~ busy to make any dinky art, enjoy some references instead.
> 
> [Theon's old clothes](http://mistythicket.com/ebay/renaissance_merchant_doublet_11.jpg).
> 
> [Theon's upgraded clothes](http://elizabethanenglandlife.com/elizabethan-lower-class-versus-upper-class-5.jpg).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, there's some implied dubious consent because Theon is...well, you'll see.

Fairies were such mercurial beings. Theon wasn’t sure what to make of Ramsay’s mood swings. A few hours of sleep had not done much to assuage his confusion. And now he was getting ready to attend a ball with someone he increasingly began to suspect might be unstable.

Theon had never been to a ball before. Baelish had been more keen to attend other nobles’ parties rather than throw his own, and when he did, the Greyjoys certainly weren’t on the invite list. It had always been one of Theon’s wishes, however.

He admired his new outfit in the mirror, the way it hugged tightly to his waist, accentuated his shoulders. The black fabric came in intricate damask print and was some material he had never felt before—thick enough and stiff enough to hold its shape, but also incredibly soft to the touch. The gold embroidery really sold the piece, though. He looked quite good, he had to admit. That Skinner fellow might be unsettling, but he knew his business.

Unconsciously, he felt for the pocket sewn into the lining of his fine new doublet, where he had tucked Robb’s lock of hair. It had been a gift, after all, and it didn’t feel right to throw it away with his old clothes. But something told him that Ramsay would not be pleased to find he still had it on his person.

He turned from his reflection as the door to his room opened. It wasn’t Ramsay, but a large man with broad shoulders and square jaw. Despite his pointed ears poking out from blond hair, he looked a rather brutish type, clearly uncomfortable in his fine clothing. He gave Theon a brief, appreciatory look. “You’re a pretty one.”

Theon drew back. “And you are…?”

“Damon. Ramsay ordered me to come get you. Said he was busy, otherwise he’d escort you himself.”

“Oh.” He’d actually been looking forward to walking down with Ramsay. “Alright then.”

Damon offered his arm, but Theon wrinkled his nose.

“I can walk on my own, thanks.”

The hulking fae shrugged his hulking shoulders and withdrew the arm. “Whatever you say, princess.”

Theon hurried ahead of him, lest Damon decide to hold the door open for him. Damon followed closely behind, herding him like a sheep through the narrow hallways, until the faint din of music and voices came echoing down the corridor.

Abruptly, the narrow hallways opened up to a balcony looking upon an enormous ballroom below. A sea of color greeted Theon—gowns and garments that shimmered in the light of the chandeliers, glowed with a preternatural light, some that even changed hue from one moment to the next. He was left feeling oddly underdressed in the fanciest outfit he had ever worn.

A winding staircase led the way down. Damon again offered his arm, and again Theon dismissed him. Hand on the banister, he made his way down, eying the odd array of guests. Only about half could pass for mortal men or women. Besides their pointed ears, the only other tell was in how otherworldly beautiful they were, their skin too smooth, their features too perfect. For a moment, Theon wondered if he would find Robb or Sansa here. Sansa was Ramsay’s betrothed after all. But he dismissed that quickly. Neither of them had come for him in his time of need; Ramsay had.

The other guests were more obviously fae. Some had horns and tails while others had a fully animal head. Some looked like trees, with bark for skin and leaves for hair. Others still appeared to be made entirely of fire or smoke or water. In the center of the ballroom, fairies of all sorts danced in chains to harp and flute music. Theon wondered what it would be like to dance with someone who had hooves for feet.

A hand pressed against the small of his back, pushing him forward. “You’re in luck,” Damon whispered into his ear. “It looks like you’ll get to meet the lord of the castle.”

Theon looked over his shoulder in confusion. “Isn’t Ramsay the lord of the castle?”

Damon just barked in laughter.

They cut through the crowds of fae. More than one head turned to stare at him, and Theon wondered if the fair folk found mortals as intriguing as mortals found the fair folk.

Towards a row of thick columns, the partygoers thinned. This was where they found Ramsay, in conversation with another dark-haired man, thin and pale, ageless but still somehow obviously older than Ramsay. From the look of tight-lipped anger on Ramsay’s face, it wasn’t pleasant conversation.

Damon pushed Theon forward. “Forgive the interruption, m’lord, but your charge…”

Theon stumbled, then quickly righted himself. The thin man regarded him with glowing eyes, the same pale shade as Ramsay’s. There was a certain resemblance there, though his ears were pointed like the other fae Theon had seen. “Your charge, Ramsay? I don’t recall giving you permission to bring a mortal into my castle.”

So, this was the lord of the castle. Ramsay’s…father? Theon stood with his shoulders stiffly back, chin up. How did one greet a fae lord? A handshake? A bow?

Ramsay spared him the trouble. “I don’t need your permission, Father.”

The lord raised a single eyebrow and cast a sideways glance towards his son. “No, I suppose not. You’ll do as you please in any case.” He held out a thin, pale hand with a half dozen rings holding a half dozen rubies. “Roose Bolton, of the Unseelie Court.”

“A pleasure, my lord.” Theon took the offered hand and bent to kiss the rings on the lord’s ring finger. “I am Theon Greyjoy. Thank you for inviting me to your lovely ball.”

Roose seemed singularly unimpressed. “He has manners at least. Keep him out of the way and you are allowed to have your fun.”

So much for no one telling Ramsay what to do. Ramsay’s face turned dark red. “Yes, Father,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

Roose opened his mouth to say something else, but a fae woman pushed her way between Ramsay and Theon and latched onto Roose’s arm. “So, this is where you’ve been hiding away, Roose,” she said with a smirk. Her eyes landed on Theon. “And consorting with mortals again?”

“Barbrey,” Roose answered, a clear warning edge in his voice.

“Oh, don’t be that way.” Barbrey tugged on his arm. “Come dance with me, you old goat.” As she pulled him along, ignoring his protests, she smiled and winked at Theon. “Perhaps we’ll share a dance later.”

Ramsay clamped a hand down on Theon’s shoulder, even as Roose and Barbrey joined the dancers and paid them no more mind. “That old witch should mind her own business. My father, too.”

Theon wasn’t sure what to say, or even that anything he did say would be received well, but it was oddly demystifying to see that disapproving fathers existed even in the fairy realm. Suddenly, standing among all these strange fairies being didn’t feel so alien.

“Are you hungry?” Ramsay asked.

Theon blinked. Very. It had been almost a full day since Ramsay had whisked him away, and he hadn’t eaten at all in that time. But the stories he’d grown up with said you should never accept fairy food. It did things to the mind and made you susceptible to being carried off into the fairy realm. Which…he was already in the fairy realm, wasn’t he? So it couldn’t hurt.

He nodded. Ramsay dismissed Damon with a flick of his wrist and led Theon over to a long table laid out with all manner of food, half of which Theon couldn’t even identify. “Help yourself,” Ramsay said, thrusting a plate into his hands.

Theon tentatively picked up something that looked like a croissant. His mother’s stories still rang in his head as he lifted it, sniffed, and took a small bite. He had never tasted anything like it—light and flakey, glazed with a honey so sweet it made his teeth ache.

From there, his stomach took over where his mind hesitated. He piled his plate high with all manner of bread, fruit, cheese, cakes, sweet meats, anything that grabbed his fancy. And he ate it all with relish, even when he began to notice a fuzziness around the edge of his perception. Things began to blur and swim around him, almost like being drunk. But he didn’t feel sick. In fact, he felt happier than he could ever remember being.

One moment he was licking his fingers clean, and the next he was being spun round and round on the dance floor while wild music played. He didn’t even know who his partner was, but he laughed in delight anyway.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Very…much so,” Theon said, so happy he could hardly get the words out.

“You’re Ramsay’s new mortal?”

Theon squinted, trying to make out his partner’s face. The voice sounded like a woman’s. “And you’re…” His muddled mind tried to conjure up a name. “Barbrey?”

“Very good, my dear,” she said. “Barbrey Dustin, of the Unseelie Court. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s…all mine.”

“I’m sure.”

She held her hand up, and for some reason Theon knew the dance’s steps. He put his hand up to meet hers, palm to palm and forearm to forearm. They did a twirl as up and down the line the other dancers did the same, all in a strangely uniform rhythm.

“I can’t tell if you are brave or foolhardy for being here,” she went on. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

“I’m not afraid,” he laughed, because he wasn’t. He hadn’t a care in the world, and this was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“Foolhardy then,” Barbrey said. “I suppose you won’t take it to heart until it’s too late, but don’t let yourself become too attached to Ramsay.”

“Because he is betrothed to Sansa Stark? Yes, I know.” And in that moment, he didn’t care.

“Tell you that, did he?” Barbrey smiled thinly as they finished their steps. “Keep my words in mind, will you? The fairy realm is no place for a boy like you.”

Then they moved on to their next respective partners down the line, and Theon was left confused. He felt he should be offended—just another person telling him he didn’t belong—but his mood was too light for that. Instead, he met up with his next partner as the world continued to blur around him.

He danced with a man with antlers, and then a woman with a dress made of starlight. He thought he might even have danced with Damon, but he couldn’t be sure.

Colors spun together. Every sound became a meaningless noise. Strong hands wrapped around his waist, and his head leaned back into something soft. Oh, he was on a bed. His bed? When had he…? Oh, the strong hands were sliding up his doublet, unbuttoning as they went. He giggled. A full-blown giggle, like a child’s, until warm lips covered his own and silenced him.

“Did you have fun at the ball, little one?”

He didn’t even bristle at the name this time. Just nodded.

“And do you want to have more fun?”

He nodded again.

The hands parted his doublet and the lips brushed his forehead. Then the world went completely fuzzy and he didn’t remember anything.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:
> 
> -Continued dubcon from the previous chapter  
> -Physical abuse and threats  
> -Humiliation

He felt like he was floating. And not in a good way.

He didn’t know where he was or what time of the year it was or even who he was. Also, he was soaking wet. A parade of images and noises flashed behind his eyes as he struggled to find his footing. After what felt like an eternity, the images coalesced into a picture.

He was in the fairy realm, in his new bed in his new room. His limbs ached and his body was drenched in sweat, as if he had just come out of a fever. He seemed to be naked under the purple sheets, so at least his new clothes had not been ruined.

Theon sat up with a groan and found Ramsay sitting at the edge of his bed, peeling an apple. “Did you have fun last night?”

“I…think so?” Theon put a hand to his head, as if that would make things clearer. “Did we fuck?”

Ramsay snorted. “You don’t remember me giving you the best fucking blowjob of your life?”

Theon shook his head.

Ramsay smirked. “You were screaming loud enough to wake the castle.” The apple fell from his hands and rolled across the sheets as he suddenly shot to his feet, gripping the bedposts, stomping up and down to shake the mattress as he yelled, “Yes! Yes! Fucking Gods!” in obvious imitation of their tryst.

Theon’s face and neck turned warm. “That good?” He rather wished he _could_ remember it, especially since would have been his first time with a man. As it was, it almost felt like something had been taken from him. “But we didn’t…?”

Ramsay ceased his ridiculous display and plopped down right next to Theon. “I didn’t fuck your ass, no.” He reached over for the apple and took a big bite out of it. “You were asking me to last night, but here’s the thing. You weren’t _begging_ me to.” He took another bite, and juice ran down his chin. He made no effort to wipe it away. “If you want me, I want you fucking _begging_ for it. Got it?”

Theon nodded furiously. Though he was glad he had no begged for it last night. He wanted to remember his first time. He wanted to remember _wanting_ his first time.

“Anyway, you’ve been sleeping all morning.” Ramsay stood and tossed the half-eaten apple over his shoulder. It clunked as it hit the floor. “It’s time you got up already. You need to get ready for tonight’s ball.”

“Oh, I thought last night—”

“Don’t think. It’s not a good look for you.” Ramsay rolled his shoulders. “We have a ball every night, and every night they’re equally dull. Tonight’s ball is set to be particularly dull, seeing as we have a special guest.”

He raised his eyebrows expectantly, which Theon took as a cue to ask, “Who is that?”

“The Queen of the Unseelie Court herself.”

“Oh. That sounds…” He’d heard stories of the Unseelie Queen, that she was beautiful and cruel in equal measure, that she was quick to punish those who slighted her. That she hated mortals.

“You needn’t look so frightened,” Ramsay said. “I’ll protect you. She’s our guest, after all. She wouldn’t dare lay a hand on what’s mine.”

A shudder ran up Theon’s sweat-soaked back. Was he Ramsay’s?

“In any case, you’ll need some extra time to dress. Myranda!”

Theon jumped at the sudden yell. A moment later, the bedroom door opened and a woman with a sour face came in. She had pretty features, and her pointed ears marked her as one of the fair folk. Her drab, shapeless shift, however, marked her as a maidservant. “Yes, m’lord?”

Ramsay kicked the fallen apple at her. “Clean that up. Oh, and draw up a bath for Theon. He reeks.”

Her eyes narrowed as they landed on Theon. “Yes, m’lord.”

She snapped her fingers, and a tub of steaming water appeared in the middle of the room. She snapped the fingers on her other hand, and her arms became laden with towels. Theon felt like he should applaud, but she most likely would not appreciate it.

He jumped when he felt hands on his shoulders.

“I’m going to fetch your new wardrobe from Skinner,” Ramsay whispered in his ear. “Be cooperative with Myranda and take your bath.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Theon stammered as Ramsay released him and headed for the door.

“Take good care of him, Myranda,” he called to the woman, who was stooped to pick up his apple.

She wrinkled her nose and made as if to pitch the apple at him, but the door closed and her chance was gone. Instead, she took a bite out of it and pointed to the tub as she chewed. “In.”

Theon didn’t hesitate. The sheet fell away from him as he stood. Then he did hesitate. He’d forgotten he was completely naked. Women…tended to react differently to that than men.

She just gave him a cursory glance before scoffing. “We’ll see how long you last.”

“Excuse me?” That seemed rather…rude. Was she questioning his…stamina?

She just cocked her head towards the tub. “Get in. Or do you need help with that too?”

“No, I’m fine.” He stepped into the tub, not bothering to hide himself from her, and sank down into the warm water. It felt heavenly on the lingering ache in his joints. He moaned as he leaned back.

Behind him, he heard Myranda snap her fingers again, and a moment later her fingers were lathering something sweet-smelling into his hair. “He’s playing with you. You’re aware of that, right?”

Theon hummed dismissively.

“You think you’re the first mortal he’s ever asked me to wash?”

“I don’t really care how many mortals you’ve washed,” he answered truthfully.

“You’re not even the most arrogant. That would be Kyra.” Her voice rose a pitch as she put on an imperious tone. “‘I asked for lavender soap. The water is too warm, refill it. You’re snarling my hair, you clumsy girl.’ She was a farmer’s daughter. Thought it would be fun to order a servant around a bit.” She snorted.

Theon lifted his head.

“You’re not the first mortal Ramsay has brought here.” She giggled into her soap-covered hand. “You’re not even the tenth. And not a single one of them has lasted past a month or two.” She went back to kneading his hair, her motions unsettlingly gentle. “Mortals. Your bodies are so fragile.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“Is it working?” She laughed. “You should be scared.”

“And _you_ should hold your tongue.” Theon slapped at the water, splashing her like a petulant child. “Or shall I tell Ramsay you didn’t take good care of me like he asked, hmm?”

To his satisfaction, her cheeks colored, and when she began washing the soap from his hair, her hands trembled in barely contained rage. And she didn’t speak again until she, politely, asked him to get out of the tub so she could towel him off.

He was nearly dry when Ramsay returned, holding something bulky in his arms. His new outfit, it appeared. Which raised the question: Where was his _old_ new outfit? He hadn’t seen any sign of it since he’d woken up, and vague flashes of memory told him he’d been wearing it in bed last night, at least briefly. _Robb’s hair was in the pocket_ , he thought with a sudden panic. He didn’t have time to think on it, though, because Ramsay was holding the new garment out and Theon’s mind raced to understand.

Was this some sort of joke?

Ramsay held in his arms a gown. A woman’s gown. Made of a heavy black material, the skirt covered in a translucent gauze, embroidered with a delicate silver thread. It was quite lovely. Perhaps it was Myranda’s dress?

“Myranda, would you help Theon into his gown?”

“I…” Theon was speechless. “I can’t wear a dress. I’m a man.”

Ramsay waved his hand dismissively. “No one will care that you’re a man.”

“Maybe, but…I don’t _want_ to wear a dress.”

Ramsay’s face darkened. “Are you questioning me? You know that goes against our geas.”

“No.” Theon squared his shoulders. “I’m not questioning you. I’m _telling_ you that I don’t want to wear a dress.” He turned towards the mirror on the vanity, distracting himself by playing with his still-damp hair. “Tell Skinner his work is impeccable, but I would prefer to wear men’s clothes. Surely he can make something quickly.”

He flinched as heavy footsteps crossed the room, and when he saw Ramsay’s angry face appear behind him in the mirror, he clamped his eyes shut, simply to block him out. Myranda’s words rang in his mind: _Mortals. Your bodies are so fragile_.

Ramsay grabbed him and spun him around, and Theon was forced to open his eyes as he was shoved up against the mirror, naked save for the towel wrapped around his waist. “Your ingratitude is most unbecoming.”

Theon opened his mouth to offer a feeble protest. “I—”

Ramsay smacked him, hard, across the temple and jaw. Theon’s head spun, vision turning to stars for just a moment, ears ringing.

“I don’t care what you _want_ ,” Ramsay growled. “ _I_ want you to wear this. And I don’t want to hear any complaints.” He thrust the dress into Theon’s arms. “Rule number three of our geas: When I give you an order, you do it without backtalk. Understood?”

Theon rubbed at his face. He caught a glimpse of Myranda smirking at him over Ramsay’s shoulder.

It dawned on him, then, what he’d truly gotten himself into by taking Ramsay’s offer.

“I understand,” he murmured, eyes downcast.

Ramsay snorted. “If you feel like breaking our contract, then go ahead. Any time you want. _I’m_ not the one whose life is on the table.”

Theon nodded. “I understand,” he repeated.

“Good, because I don’t want to see any of this ingratitude at the ball tonight.” He took a step back, unpinning Theon from the vanity. “Now, get dressed.” He turned to go. “Myranda, help him.” He stopped at the door. “And fix his face, would you? I want him looking pretty for the Queen.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:
> 
> -Forced crossdressing  
> -Fairies messing with Theon's mind

Myranda helped him into his corset and tied the lacing so tight he could hardly breathe. Then, because he couldn’t bend at the waist anymore, she had to help him pull the dress on, one layer at a time. Then, because he did not know how, she applied kohl to his eyes and blush to his cheeks. Then she had him face the mirror she could work on his hair.

He was shocked at the image reflected back at him. If he ignored the lingering voices of his father and brothers, he could admit that he didn’t look as ridiculous as he’d feared. He didn’t exactly have the right hips, but the dress sat in straight lines along his body in the same pleasing way last night’s outfit had—accentuating his waist and shoulders. In fact, he might hazard that he cut a rather elegant figure.

Very well, if he was forced to wear this garment, he would wear it with confidence. He lifted his chin.

Myranda finished with his hair—there wasn’t much to be done with it at its current length—and stepped back. “What are you smirking about?”

“Smirking? Me?” Theon smirked at her.

She placed her fists on her hips and matched his smirk. “I suppose you think you’re _pretty_ now.”

Theon casually inclined his head away from her. “Ramsay doesn’t take you to many balls, does he?”

Her smirk fell away. “You certainly seem to think you’re pretty clever.” She bared her teeth in a nasty scowl. “You should know, Ramsay _hates_ clever.”

“Is that why he keeps _you_ around?”

She tucked her lips in tight, and he noticed her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. “At least he keeps me around.”

A beat of malicious silence followed, broken by Ramsay barging into the room.

He was dressed in a fine red-and-white-striped doublet, with tufts of pink fabric poking out between the slits on his sleeves. A heavy pink cloak with red bloodstones sewn onto it sat on his shoulders, fastened by a heavy silver chain. His hair had been tied back by a ribbon at the base of his neck, showing off his single bloodstone earring. He looked supremely uncomfortable but his face came alight when he saw Theon.

Ignoring Myranda, he crossed the room and grabbed Theon’s arm to pull him into a twirl. The skirts of the dress billowed out and Ramsay spun him. “You look positively ravishing, my little one.”

Theon wasn’t in the mood to feel “little” _or_ “ravishing.” He stood straight and tall, shoulders back. “Thank you,” he said curtly. “Shall we go?”

Ramsay made a sweeping gesture with his arm, beckoning Theon to go first. Theon went with his head held high and straight. Until Ramsay grabbed his wrist and tucked their arms together. “I want them all to be jealous when they see you with me,” he whispered into Theon’s ear as he led them from the room.

Theon caught a brief glimpse of Myranda’s hatred-filled face before they rounded the doorframe.

They followed the same path Damon had taken him last night, through all the narrow hallways and out onto the grand balcony. The party was in full swing, with easily twice as many guests as last night. Tonight’s music was more subdued, possibly to allow for the myriad conversations on the outskirts of the dance floor.

Theon felt bare and exposed as he and Ramsay began down the grand staircase, Theon holding the hem of his dress so that he wouldn’t trip. It felt as if everyone was staring at him. Somewhere, a woman laughed, and he just knew she was laughing at him. He stared at the ground to hide the redness of his face. So much for keeping his head straight.

Ramsay nudged him. “None of that.”

He forced his head up and to the front, so that he couldn’t see the guests to either side, so that he couldn’t tell if they were looking or not.

They passed the table laden with food. “Hungry, little one?”

Very. He shook his head no. Memories—or rather, lack of memories—from last night killed his appetite.

Ramsay shrugged and led him past the table.

It was obvious where they were headed. A throng had gathered along the long wall, where moonlight streamed in through the large windows. And in the ethereal glow of that moonlight, at the center of the throng, stood the most elegant woman Theon had ever seen.

She towered over everyone else by at least a head, possibly two, and a cascade of golden hair—not blonde, _golden_ —flowed all the way down to her feet. She was clad in a golden gown—not gold-colored, _golden_ —lined at the bodice and sleeves with fur so white it glowed in the moonlight. Everything about her radiated sun, and yet her face was icy, rigid. There was no doubt in his mind that she was the Queen of the Unseelie.

Theon panicked as they drew near. How did one greet a queen?

She finished her conversation with a fox-eared fae, and Ramsay took the chance to push his way into her circle, dragging Theon behind him. “Your Majesty.” He bowed stiffly, though whether from rudeness or the stiffness of his clothing was difficult to tell. “What a gift to be graced by your presence at our ball.”

The Queen’s face remained impassive. “Ramsay.” She batted her lace fan, a rather irritated gesture. “How pleasant to see you again as well.” Her words were dull and cold as ice.

Ramsay released Theon’s arm. “May I present my consort?”

_Consort?_

Theon stood in front of her, looking up at her, feeling sweat gather at the back of his neck. His blanked mind grasped for the appropriate reaction. The corset would not allow him to bow, so he curtsied. “Your Majesty.”

Her lips quirked upwards, and for a moment he thought he might have pleased her. “Is that what passes for a curtsy in the mortal realm?”

“Uh…” The unformed word just sort of hung out of Theon’s mouth.

“You know mortals,” Ramsay chuckled. “Clumsy and dim.”

Theon’s cheeks burned. Somehow, Ramsay’s laugh cut deeper than the slap had earlier.

“They are that.” The Unseelie Queen snapped her fan closed. “Tell me, boy, what sorts of stories do they tell of Queen Cersei in the mortal realm these days?”

It took a moment for him to process the question. “Th-they say you are the most beautiful woman in the world,” he stammered.

She lifted one eyebrow, indicating that was a good place to start.

His mind whirled as he considered what she would most like to hear. “And they say that you are as terrifying as you are beautiful, that mortals are unsure whether to kneel in awe of your beauty or cower in terror before you. I must admit,” he added with a lopsided grin, “I am unsure myself, Your Majesty.”

Her glowing green eyes studied him, then her lips quirked into a—not a genuine smile, per se, but an amused one. “It seems humans are still better at one thing than fae.” She tapped him on the head with her closed fan. “Flattery.”

Theon released his breath.

“Does your clumsy consort dance?”

Theon turned towards the new voice, and he wondered how he had not seen the young man earlier. Possibly because he did not have the Queen’s stature. He was dressed in an overcoat of the same gold material, with flashes of a red and black doublet underneath multiple gold chains. His hair was blond—not gold, though a sort of shimmery dust seemed to shake free with every slight movement of his head.

He held out his hand to Theon. “You don’t mind, do you, Ramsay?”

Ramsay’s eye twitched. “Not at all, Joffrey.”

Theon hesitantly took the young man’s hand and was immediately pulled away to the dance floor, where couples made tight circles as they traveled the ring. He hadn’t had much experience with this sort of dancing, but as with last night, he found that he somehow knew the steps. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder while the young man put a hand at his waist, their free arms joined together.

“Wh—?”

“Ah,” the young man clicked his tongue, “where are my manners? I’m Joffrey, Crown Prince of the Unseelie Court.” He leaned in conspiratorial. “That will be King Joffrey if my hag of a mother ever kicks the bucket.”

“Ah,” Theon agreed.

“How does it feel to be dancing with a future king?”

“I…can’t say,” Theon said, hoping it sounded more like he was overwhelmed rather than simply confused.

“You should see my castle,” Joffrey went on. “Much more impressive than this dusty old place. We throw better balls there, as well, but Mother says we must keep up appearances. Perhaps I’ll take you there sometime.”

“Perhaps.”

They did a twirl, and despite the long skirts, Theon didn’t falter, even a little.

“How much do you think Ramsay would accept for you?”

Theon blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“How much would I have to offer him to take you off his hands?”

Theon blinked again, confused, even as a ball of ice began to form in the pit of his stomach. “I don’t…I couldn’t say.”

“I don’t suppose you could. We fae don’t barter in money the way you mortals do. But I wonder what he would be willing to trade for you. One of my horses, maybe? Or my crossbow that never misses an animal’s heart? He’s always wanted that.”

The ice began to grow.

But then Joffrey threw back his head and laughed. “I’m kidding, of course. You’re not my type.” He leaned in close. “Not a virgin.”

Theon wondered how it was possible to feel relief and dread at the same time.

“I’m just curious,” Joffrey went on. “He’s always had this thing about collecting mortals, but he seems particularly fond of you for some reason.” He gave a small shrug, as if it weren’t worth considering further. “You _should_ see my castle, though, just so you know what a rat hole you’re really living in. I know, I’ll tell Ramsay to bring you to my wedding.”

“You’re getting married?” Why did he ask that? He really didn’t want to know.

“Not long, if I can help it.” He rolled his eyes. “Can you imagine being married to Sansa Stark for eternity?”

“Sansa?” Theon repeated. “Winter Princess of the Seelie Court? That Sansa?”

“Bringing  the Seelie and Unseelie Courts together.” Joffrey blew out an exasperated breath. “Idiots. But the Winter Princess is such a soft-headed idiot. She might be fun for a while.”

“But I thought…” Theon stopped speaking before he said something stupid.

Joffrey cocked his head. “You thought…?”

Well, now he had to finish his thought. “I thought Sansa was to marry Ramsay.”

Joffrey began to laugh. A laugh that started as a chuckle and gradually grew into a raucous bark, such that the closest dancers actually glanced their way in alarm. “Ramsay?” he guffawed. “He wishes. Why in the fairy and mortal realms would Princess Sansa marry riffraff like him?”

“Riffraff? He’s not a…prince?”

Joffrey’s shoulders shook in mirth. “Gods, no. He’s Roose’s misbegotten half-breed. And Roose himself is but a noble of the Court.”

The ice in his stomach was back.

But he didn’t have time to contemplate it too much, because Joffrey used the hand on his waist to reel him in close. “Ramsay’s been telling naughty lies again, hasn’t he?” he whispered into his ear. “Sansa is mine, not his. I think he needs to be taught a lesson about respecting other people’s property.”

He pressed a savage kiss against Theon’s lips.

Theon barely had time to register what was happening. Just as the initial shock began to fade, he was being torn backwards. The painfully strong grasp on his wrist turned him around to meet Ramsay’s face, contorted with rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clothing references:
> 
> [Theon's dress](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/27/c2/7b/27c27bef0823a44c23072a1bb3b70967.jpg).
> 
> [Cersei's dress](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/2f/a5/d7/2fa5d7e71e87ee743f5ced5442bc86e8.jpg).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:
> 
> -Public humiliation  
> -Forceful stripping  
> -General abuse

“Whore!” Ramsay hissed. “Ingrate!”

Somewhere out of his vision, Joffrey cackled madly.

Ramsay’s grip tightened, and Theon winced. “First you refuse to wear the clothes I had made especially for you. Then you refuse the food I offer you and embarrass me in front of the queen. And now you’re whoring yourself out right in front of me? At my father’s ball?”

Theon tried to pull out of his grasp, but he was acutely aware of how strong Ramsay actually was. “He’s the one who kissed me,” he argued back.

“Oh, so you haven’t been looking for an opportunity to leave me?” Ramsay smirked knowingly and reached into his doublet. He pulled out a lock of red hair. Theon’s heart stopped at the sight of it. “Look familiar? I found this in the pocket of the outfit _I_ gave you.”

“I-it was a gift,” Theon said, “from Ro—”

Ramsay yanked him harshly. “Don’t say that name!”

Theon gritted his teeth. He was aware of people around them staring.

“You lied to me,” he forced out.

Ramsay’s lip curled. “Are you _questioning_ me, little one? Because my geas—”

“Was put on me under false pretenses!” Theon shot back. “I’m not questioning you. I’m stating a fact. You lied to me. Have _been_ lying to me. The only reason I trusted you in the first place was because you said you were Princess Sansa’s betrothed.”

Around them, those watching began to mutter. Ramsay shot them an ugly look.

Theon kept going. “You said you wanted to reward me for helping her. That’s why I agreed to be put under your geas. I trusted you.”

“Then you were an idiot,” Ramsay said.

Theon felt a rage like he had never imagined.

He pulled out of Ramsay’s grip, much to the latter’s surprise, judging by the shocked expression on his face. “Fuck you, you lying cunt. I only went with you because Robb wasn’t there.”

Immediately, he knew that was the wrong thing to say. He’d _known_ it was the wrong thing to say, but he’d said it anyway. Ramsay’s jaw tightened. His face grew red.

He grabbed hold of the bodice of Theon’s dress and wrenched. The fabric ripped down the front, exposing his chest and the corset underneath. More than one person gasped. More than one person laughed.

“You look like a whore,” Ramsay said plainly. “Do you think Robb Stark would want you now, looking like that?”

Theon clutched the torn fabric to him like some blushing maid protecting her modesty.

 “You want to break our geas, go ahead. Go right ahead. I’m not the one who’s going to drop dead in front of all these people.”

Theon didn’t respond.

“Tch,” Ramsay spat, grabbing Theon by the hair. “You’re pathetic.” He began to drag him away, and Theon went because he didn’t have much of a choice. They parted through a crowd of people who had stopped to gawk at them. Theon could hear their worried murmurs.

He tripped over his skirts on the way up the stairs, so Ramsay dragged him the rest of the way. He was not gentle. Clumps of hair came out with every step, and tears gathered in Theon’s eyes at the sting of it. Then, mercifully, they reached the balcony, and the noise returned to normal and then faded behind them as Ramsay continued to drag him along the hallway.

When they got to the door of his room, Ramsay wrenched it open and shoved Theon in. Theon landed on hard stone, his wrists stinging from taking the brunt of his fall. Before he could lift himself, Ramsay was on him, ripping at his dress, tearing, rending. The heavy fabric ripped like paper under his hands, even as Theon tried to fight him off. Terrified of what he would do.

“You don’t want to wear the clothes I give you?” Ramsay snarled as he yanked the skirts down around Theon’s legs. “Fine. You won’t wear anything.”

“Stop,” Theon pleaded.

But Ramsay just flipped him over and snapped the lacing on the corset, tearing that off as well. Theon was bare, then, with only scraps of cloth left. He crawled for the corner and huddled there, curled in on himself.

Ramsay stalked towards him, and he flinched away. But no blows came. No touches of any sort. Instead, Ramsay just squatted down in front of him. “You don’t want to eat the food I offer you? Fine. You won’t eat anything.”

Theon began to shiver uncontrollably. Cold. It was so cold in here. Someone had opened the window and taken down the drapes. Myranda? But why would she…?

It struck him then. The floor was bare as well, and the walls. The fur carpets, the tapestries, all gone. The nice bed, the sofa, the vanity, all the furniture, everything…gone. The room was as barren as a cell. Cold and dark.

Ramsay grimaced. “You’ll have a room becoming of your gratitude. Maybe if you can show a little appreciation, you can earn a straw bed…” He pointed to the far corner. “Over there. And a bucket.”

“Please,” Theon begged. “I’m sorry. I was angry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Ramsay stared at him, wide eyes glowing in the darkness of the room. “Are you cold?”

“Y-yes.” Theon nodded.

Ramsay stood and dropped something that Theon’s feet. “Here, see if that keeps you any warmer.”

Theon reached for it and felt it between his fingers. It was the lock of Robb’s hair.

 

***

 

It was always cold throughout the night. There was never a moment where Theon wasn’t cold.

The first night Ramsay left him in that room, locked the door behind him and forbid him from closing the window, he lay in the corner, curled in on himself like a dying spider. His entire body spasmed with chills, and he thought his teeth might break from chattering. Every time it seemed his body would settle, a cruel gust of wind tore through the window and set him quivering again.

When the morning sun came creeping in, it revealed the beds of his fingernails had taken on a bluish tint in the night.

The sun brought some relief—not much, but some. Which left Theon to remember just how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten anything since the night before last. It seemed so long ago now. When he had been warm and happy, when he had felt like Ramsay was his protector. Perhaps the gnawing in his stomach was an apt metaphor for how empty he felt.

 He wished he’d never said that. Wished he’d never lost his temper. Wished things could go back to the way they’d been.

No. The way things had been was built on a lie. Ramsay was a liar.

He wished he could go home. He’d apologize to his father if need be, put a hand to his heart and promise to never act “like a woman” again, even if he still wasn’t sure what that meant.

No. What he really wanted…

He clutched the lock of Robb’s hair tightly in his fist, as if it were a rosary. “Robb, Winter Prince of Seelie,” he whispered. “I need you, I need you. Please, if you can hear me, I need you.”

But it seemed Robb couldn’t hear him. Or didn’t wish to hear him.

It was nearly nightfall again by the time Ramsay appeared. And by then, Theon was frozen too stiff to move, too weak to lift his head. Ramsay sneered in disgust and tossed a burlap sack at him. “You’ll wear this.”

Theon’s hands creaked as they wrapped around the rough fabric, pulled it to him. After nothing, it felt like a down comforter.

Ramsay crossed the room and closed the window. “I brought you something to eat.” He tossed a bone on the floor, bits of chicken still clinging to it.

Theon ran a tongue over his chapped lips and reached for it. Then paused and looked up at Ramsay. A trap?

“It’s not enchanted,” Ramsay said. “I’m not going to let you die. If you want death, you’ll have to do it yourself.” He paced close and knelt down.

Theon withdrew as much as he was able.

“You’re afraid of me.” Ramsay chuckled. “Afraid of what I might do to you.”

He cupped the side of Theon’s face. His hand was so warm. Theon could not stop himself nuzzling into it, seeking out just a little bit more of that warmth.

Ramsay quickly drew his hand away, though, grinning broadly. “I could warm you up.” His implication was very clear. “If you want.”

Theon stared up at him blearily. “And if I don’t want?”

Ramsay chuckled. “I already told you. I’m not fucking you unless you beg for it.”

Theon shook his head. “Never.”

“Fine then. Have it your way.” Ramsay stood. “Eat.” He kicked the bone at Theon. “And try to get some sleep. You’re going to start pulling your weight around here, starting tomorrow.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions of rape and mental manipulation.

Theon didn’t know how he managed to sleep, but he woke to the sound of knocking on the door. His eyes felt unimaginably heavy. Cracking them open told him daylight had come again. “Awake in there, fucker?” It wasn’t Ramsay’s voice.

He pulled his burlap sack around him tighter and turned to face the wall. A moment later, he heard the crashing of the door as it was kicked in, followed by the heavy tread of boots. A hand grabbed none-too-gently at his shoulder and whipped him around. A man with stingy hair and boar’s tusks poking out of his bottom lip stood over him, glowering.

“Up and at ‘em, fucker. Daylight’s wasting.”

He kicked at Theon’s prone form until he was forced to get up to his aching feet. And by then, Theon didn’t see any point in resisting, so he followed the man when he beckoned with a jerk of his head.

They went down to the ballroom. It looked very different in the light of day. All the noise, all the color, all the pageantry—all the magic, gone. Now it was just a big empty room.

The boar-toothed man thrust a mop and a bucket of soapy water at him. “Name’s Alyn and I’m your overseer,” he said, and his breath washed over Theon like a putrid cloud. “This floor.” He pointed, indicating the stones. “It needs to be clean.”

Theon looked around. “What, all of it?”

“Every last tile.”

“But that could take all day.”

“You have until sunset, when the next ball starts. So…” Alyn gave him a shove that sent the water in the bucket sloshing over the side. “Get to it.”

Theon shot him a hateful look.

Alyn just grinned and tapped the side of his nose. “Ramsay says my orders are as good as his. You want to disobey them, you’ll be breaking his geas. Said I could do whatever I want with your body if you drop dead under my orders. Kinda hoping you will. Haven’t had human flesh in a long time.” A thick tongue rolled along one of his tusks. “Too long.”

Theon shuddered in revulsion. He set the bucket down and got to work.

He’d never had to mop a floor before, or really do much cleaning for that matter. Cleaning was woman’s work, after all. But it couldn’t be that hard, could it? He dunked the mop into the bucket and then slapped it onto the floor, spreading the water around.

Alyn watched him and smirked. “You’re doing it wrong.”

Theon looked up at him. “Then show me how to do it.”

“I’m not showing you shit. Figure it out on your own.”

“Can’t you use magic to clean all of this?”

“You can,” Alyn said with a shrug, and nothing more.

Theon continued with his work. He found that he had barely gotten within several paces of where he’d started before he’d run out of water. The floor behind him was a lake. The water puddled in the grout and would not spread, but would only slosh around when he pushed at it with his mop. He tried soaking it up and wringing it out over the bucket, but that proved time-intensive and back-breaking.

After some time, Alyn must have either grown bored or taken pity on him, because he cocked his head. “I’ll show you where to refill the water.”

He led Theon, carrying the empty bucket, through a maze of corridors he was sure he would never remember, through kitchens where a dozen fae worked busily over a dozen fires, and out into a courtyard where a lone well pump greeted him. But of course he didn’t lift a finger to help pump fresh water into the bucket, or carry it, now considerably heavier, back to the ballroom.

On his second try, Theon did better, making sure not to soak the mop but rather to lightly wet it before using it on the floor. He worked from one wall to the other, finding out the best way to move the mop to clean the stone. He found circular motions worked better than back-and-forth ones. And when the bucket was empty, he went to refill it again.

Working this way, under Alyn’s watchful eye, he cleaned the entire hall. The sunlight from the windows moved across the floor—morning turning to afternoon turning to evening. The first hints of orange had appeared in the sky outside when Theon finally reached the last corner and set his mop down with a sigh. He had worked up a sweat, and yet his bare feet remained oddly cold, his hands dry from the water.

 “Huh, you finished it.” Alyn scratched his head, then reached into his pocket and tossed something at Theon. Theon fumbled to grab it and found it was a piece of dried bread crust. “Was told you could have that if you finished in time. I’m still going to tell Ramsay you were lipping off to me today.”

Theon didn’t care. He stuffed the morsel into his mouth, and if it hadn’t been so hard and dry, he probably would have swallowed without chewing. It did little for the aching in his stomach, but it was something, at least.

When Alyn took him back to his room, he collapsed into his corner, muscles aching and twitching from a day of unfamiliar work. He tried to sleep, but as exhausted as his body was, his mind was wakeful. The sweat on his body turned icy cold as darkness set, and no amount of tucking or curling brought any sort of relief.

It must have been around midnight, because the waning moon was high overhead when Ramsay came to visit him. Theon didn’t even have the energy to flinch away from him as he squatted down. “Your first day of earning your keep.”

Theon didn’t respond. It hurt to move, even just a bit. Every shiver sent a jolt of pain through his limbs.

“Poor thing.” Ramsay ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He was _warm_. It didn’t hurt. “Cold and sore. You could spend the night in a nice, warm bed. If you’re willing to beg for it.”

“A warm bath sounds better,” Theon muttered.

“Baths are for grateful servants. No baths for you, little one.” The hand in his hair became rough. “Ah, you don’t want to be my little one. Well…” The hand was gone and Ramsay was standing. “We’ll think of a new name. Get what rest you can. I don’t want you dragging your feet tomorrow.”

 

***

 

Alyn came again in the morning, and Theon wasn’t sure how much sleep he’d actually been able to get. He felt like a dead thing as he stumbled after his overseer, down the kitchens they’d passed yesterday. Sheer force of will kept him on his feet as Alyn showed him to a table bending under the weight of hundreds of dishes and ordered him to wash and dry every one before the next ball.

For the next several hours, he scrubbed at grease-covered plates until the skin on his knuckles cracked. And despite the cooks constantly jostling him and shooing him out of the way, he finished on time and was rewarded with a dry, wilted carrot for supper.

 

***

 

The day after that, Alyn had him clean out all the fireplaces in the castle, of which there were one hundred forty-three. He did not finish by the time the sun set, so not only did he not receive anything to eat, he was not allowed to go to bed until the job was done. He returned to his room and got perhaps an hour or two of sleep before Alyn was waking him up for the next day’s task.

 

***

 

And so it went. Theon washed windows, stripped beds, collected laundry, scrubbed dishes, chopped wood…any sort of household work Ramsay could think for him to do. If he finished in the allotted time, he got scraps of food. If he did the job _well_ , he was rewarded. A pile of hay for sleeping on, a bucket to relieve himself in, the occasional day off. So he learned to do the job well.

He became an expert in mopping, in tucking sheets, in washing windows. Eventually, Alyn stopped watching after him, but Theon still worked his best. His knuckles bled and calluses formed on his palms. His knees had constant marks on them from kneeling on uneven stone surfaces. He was often covered in grime—dust and dirt and sweat. Alyn took to calling him Reek, and the other servants followed. He sometimes saw Myranda in the hallways, and she would smirk knowingly at him.

It seemed that no matter how hard he worked—how many buckets of water he carried back and forth, how many logs he chopped for firewood, how many stairs he went up and down during the day—his body never got used to it. His muscles always hurt. His joints always ached. He was always cold, and stiff, and numb in his feet. He was always hungry.

 

***

 

Time seemed to bleed together in this place. Theon had no notion of the outside world, or how long he’d been here. Not until the day Alyn—or Ramsay, whoever was _really_ giving orders—had him clean every mirror in the castle. Then he spent all day staring at his reflection. He barely recognized the thing staring back at him, the gaunt lines of its face, its sunken cheeks and eyes.

He’d always considered himself handsome. The girls of the village had thought so, as well as the boys who gave him sideways glances when the girls would compliment him. And even, sometimes, some of the boys would compliment him.

Jon had even complimented him once, muttering in that way he did that he was lucky he had the face to back up his personality. At the time, Theon had thought he’d been mocking him, because Jon was pretty, _fae pretty_ , and everyone knew it. But now, looking back, Theon wondered if Jon hadn’t been the closest thing he’d had to a friend back in Ramsgate. He certainly missed the sullen boy more than he’d have thought.

He wondered if anybody missed him, wondered where he’d gone. He wondered if Robb and Sansa even remembered him, if they ever thought about him. He kept the lock of Robb’s hair tucked under his straw bed. Sometimes, on the coldest nights, clutching it to his chest like a child’s cherished toy was the only thing that gave him any real warm.

 

***

 

He still didn’t know what it was about that particular night that made him give. He’d been cold for so long—weeks, at least, maybe months. He’d been aching and tired for months. He’d been lonely for months. But for some reason, that night—he’d earned a night off for mopping the entire ballroom in record time—when Ramsay came to see him—he didn’t always, sometimes left him alone for days or even full weeks—he…broke down.

He was the one to reach out, before Ramsay even said a word. On his knees, he grasped the hem of Ramsay’s shirt. “Please,” he whimpered. “I’m cold. I want to be warm.”

It must have caught Ramsay by surprise, because he stood with his mouth open for a moment. Just a moment, though. Then his ever-present grin was back, bigger this time, like a child who’d been told he could have a sweet before dinner. “I’m sorry, Reek, I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”

Theon gritted his teeth, thinking he might cry from frustration.

“Take me into your bed.”

“Whatever for?”

“To warm me.”

“Warm you how?”

He lowered his head. “Fuck me.”

Ramsay leaned in closer, cupped a hand to his ear. “I’m not sure I heard you, Reek.”

“Fuck me!” Theon clawed at his tunic. “I want you to bury your cock deep inside me. Fuck me so hard I can’t walk. Tear me apart. I don’t care. I want it. I need it. I need _you_. Please. I’m begging you to fuck me.”

For a long moment, Ramsay didn’t react. Theon just sank back on his haunches, gaping up at him with an open mouth. What else did he want him to say? How else could he possibly debase himself? Then, with a fond chuckle, Ramsay petted his head.

“Alright, if you insist, Reek.”

 

***

 

It didn’t happen just once.

Sex with Ramsay was usually humiliating, oftentimes painful, and always warm. He hatred himself during, and he hated himself afterwards, but at least he had a soft bed with warm sheets. And something realer than _hair_ to cling to.

He slept dreamlessly on those nights.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:
> 
> -groping and other unwanted touching  
> -some abusive violence

One day, Theon woke up to Ramsay running a hand gently through his hair. He had begged again last night. And now another day had come and he would have to decide if he wanted to beg again this night. It depended on a number of things—the difficulty and amount of work he would be assigned, how tired he was as the sun went down, how badly he needed to feel human. Whether Ramsay was gentle (rarely) or rough (often), he could at least pretend someone cared about him.

All of these thoughts passed through his mind as Ramsay continued to stroke his hair. “Wake up, Reek. I have a surprise for you.”

Sure he did not want any part of Ramsay’s surprise, nonetheless, Theon forced his eyelids open. And was unpleasantly surprised to find Myranda staring at him from the end of the bed, a sly grin on her face.

Theon jolted upright. Why was she here? Had Ramsay invited her to join them? Did he expect Theon to beg her to humiliate him as well? Because he wouldn’t. He would never…

She snapped her fingers, and a tub of steaming water appeared in the center of Ramsay’s room. “Your bath awaits, _sir_ ,” she purred.

Theon shot Ramsay a questioning look, tinged, no doubt, with a bit of panic.

But Ramsay just motioned him towards the tub. “Go on, Reek. You’ve earned a bath.”

No questioning the master. That was part of their geas, and as much as Theon hated what his life had become, the truth was that he was far too much of a coward to end it. And so he lingered in this state, doing what Ramsay asked of him, never questioning.

He stood and shuffled over to the tub. As he started to climb in, Myranda suddenly grabbed the back of his head and forced him in, holding him underwater as he choked and sputtered. Warm water filled his mouth and nose. He struggled against her, but she was inhumanly strong. She was inhuman, after all.

Was this Ramsay’s plan? To drown him, unceremoniously? Perhaps he had grown tired of this pathetic thing he called Reek, clinging to life and taking up room in his castle.

Just when he had begun to make peace with the idea—perhaps even thank them for sparing him the impossible task of doing it himself—she relented. He sprang to the surface, attempting to take in a gulp of air and cough up the water in his lungs at the same time and accomplishing neither.

Myranda laughed into her hand.

“Easy, Myranda,” Ramsay warned, with no real reprimand in his voice. “He has to be alive for his surprise.”

“Of course, sir.” She snapped her fingers again, and a washrag appeared on the water’s surface. This she grabbed and wrung out before taking it to his back, so roughly that it felt as if his very skin were being scrubbed off. “Be still,” she cursed, but he wasn’t struggling against her so much as trying to recover his breathing. “You have no idea the amount of _filth_ you’re caked in.”

But he did know. Intimately.

“Honestly, Ramsay,” she murmured as she worked, scouring his back, his shoulders, his chest and stomach. “I don’t know how you can stand to f—”

“Easy,” Ramsay said, and there _was_ a definite reprimand there. “Watch your tongue, Myranda.”

Her eyes widened. Then she dipped her head submissively. “Of course. Sorry, sir.” She continued her work, none too gently, in silence.

After a few minutes, Ramsay got up, stretched, and threw on a robe to cover his nakedness. “I will be back shortly,” he announced, heading for the door. “Play nice, Myranda.”

“Yes, sir.”

The moment he was gone, she redoubled her efforts, as if trying to cause as much pain as possible. By the time she had finished his upper body, the water was as black as tar. She snapped her fingers and the water turned clear again, and clean.

Her deceptively slender hand plunged under the water and grabbed hold of his manhood, giving it a rough twist. Theon couldn’t help the yelp of pain that escaped him, and he jerked away. She did not relinquish her grasp, though. “I have to give you credit,” she hissed, “for lasting much longer than I expected.”

Theon squirmed. “You’re hurting me.”

“You like it,” she stated, as if it were a fact. Her hand released him, but his relief was short-lived as she slid along his thigh and between the cleft of his ass, finger prodding. “He heals you after, doesn’t he? Makes you nice and tight for him. Bet you didn’t know I’m the one who makes that salve for him. He has me to thank for making it ‘like fucking a virgin every time.’”

Theon met her hateful gaze. “Does he need a magic salve to get hard enough to fuck your dried up cunt?”

She glowered at him. Then snapped her fingers—which at least took her hand off of him. A razor appeared in her hand. “Your hair’s too matted,” she stated, flicking the razor out. “It will have to go.”

She was cutting away the last bit of his hair, letting it fall to join the growing pile around his feet, when Ramsay walked in. Standing before him, still dripping wet from his bath, hair down to a fine stubble, Theon felt more naked than he had ever been in his life. He could imagine what a horrid picture he made from the way Ramsay’s face quickly changed from confused to disgusted.

“What have you done, Myranda?”

She flipped her razor closed, and it vanished back into the thin air it had appeared from. “There was no saving it. I had to do it.”

Ramsay dropped the bundle he held in his arms and marched towards them. All of Myranda’s confidence disappeared the moment he grabbed her by the scruff of her dress. “Fix it,” he hissed, thrashing her around like a rattle. Her head whipped back and forth. “Or I’ll cut something off of you that you’ll really miss.”

He let her go, shoved her back, really, and she stumbled, wide-eyed. “Y-yes, sir.” She snapped her fingers, shakily, and a moment later, Theon felt an overwhelming itching on his scalp. He reached up to scratch, but his hand came in contact with hair. As full and thick as it had ever been.

“Now,” Ramsay said, “get out, woman.” He jabbed a finger at the door. “Your work is done.”

Myranda slunk from the room, closing the door meekly behind her.

“Jealous bitch,” Ramsay muttered. He turned and bent to pick up the bundle he had dropped. “Dry yourself off, Reek. You need to get dressed.”

Theon saw what he had then. A black outfit. A black outfit that looked remarkably like the one he’d been given when he first arrived here. As Ramsay helped him into it, piece by piece—Theon had almost forgotten how to wear real clothes—he noticed a musty scent to it, as if it had been tucked away and forgotten for a long time. _Was_ this his original outfit?

“You’re going to the ball tonight,” Ramsay announced. “There’s a special guest I want you to meet.” He grinned. “A friend of yours.”

Theon’s heart leapt into his gorge. “Who?”

Ramsay placed a finger against his lips. “No questions. Just come with me.” He held out his arm.

Theon took his arm, and together they headed for the ballroom. It felt like years had passed since he’d last walked this way, ages ago. And though he went up and down these halls many times during the day, it felt alien to him now, unfamiliar. The sound of the party all in full swing set his nerves on edge. He wanted to go back to his room—either Ramsay’s or his own.

When they reached the balcony, the ball was just as he had remembered it. A myriad guests in a myriad colors, some dancing to gentle music, others engaged in conversation. It did not appear overly crowded in the ballroom, so Theon guessed that Ramsay’s “guest” was not royalty; he would expect more fuss in that event. That limited his guesses—and, frankly, hopes—of who might be waiting for him in that crowd.

He allowed Ramsay to escort him down the stairs. As their feet left the last step, Ramsay paused to scan the crowd. “Ah, there she is.”

She?

Ramsay pulled him through the partygoers with obvious intent, all the while Theon’s heart hammered. Who was “she?” Someone he knew. Someone Ramsay wanted him to see. To reward him? To taunt him? It couldn’t be…

An image of his mother flashed before his eyes, but then Ramsay was reaching out for a woman with long brown hair. He tapped her shoulder. She spun around. Not a woman, a girl who couldn’t be out of her teens yet. On the prettier side of plain. A forgettable face with a dimpled smile. Her brown eyes sought him out, studied him. No recognition ignited behind them.

Theon didn’t recognize her either.

“Jeyne,” Ramsay said with a bow. “I want you to meet someone. Reek here is from your village.”

She cocked her head and smiled. There was a bleariness to her eyes. She had been eating fairy food. “Really? You’re from Ramsgate?”

“I was,” Theon said.

Ramsay pushed the two of them together. “Dance.” It wasn’t a suggestion.

For her part, the girl’s face lit up as Theon took her hand and guided her to the dance floor. Theon saw his old self mirrored in her excitement; she had not yet come to distrust the fair folk. He thought briefly of Barbrey. He should have listened to her. Except it might have been too late even then. It was probably too late for this girl.

“I’m Jeyne,” she said, as if Ramsay hadn’t introduced them just seconds earlier. “Jeyne Poole. And you are…?”

Who was he? Should he repeat the name Ramsay had given her?

“Theon Greyjoy.”

The first hint of recognition alit on her face. “Oh. Then you’re related to the lord of Ramsgate?”

“Who is the lord of Ramsgate?” The village sheriff had taken over briefly following Baelish’s disappearance, but Theon supposed they might have found a replacement since he’d left. How long ago had that been again?

“Rodrik Greyjoy.”

Ah. “He’s my brother.”

Her brow crinkled. “I wasn’t aware he had a brother.”

“What, is Maron not hanging around anymore?”

“I don’t know anyone named Maron.”

“Are you _sure_ you’re from Ramsgate?” Theon teased. Then realized how odd it felt to tease someone good-naturedly again. “Surely you must know my father then. Balon Greyjoy?”

“Oh, you’re Balon’s son?” Her brows turned upwards at that. “I’m terribly sorry to tell you, but the old lord of Ramsgate passed away.”

“What?” The words hit him hollowly, as if she’d said something very important that he couldn’t quite understand. “When?”

“Some years ago. When I was a little girl.”

He felt something like a cold hand creeping up his back. Years ago? That couldn’t be. He hadn’t been gone for years. Had he?

“Oh, I know who you are.” Jeyne beamed. “You’re the one who disappeared all those years ago, of course. I grew up hearing stories about you. That’s how I knew there was another world, and that if you had escaped here, then I could too.”

“Jeyne.” The cold hand grasped at the back of his neck. They twirled around on the dance floor. “How old are you?”

She cocked her head and smiled. “Fifteen.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains more of the same.

“Did you have fun tonight?” Ramsay asked as he began to unbutton his doublet in the mirror.

Theon sat on the bed, arms draped over his knees, staring at the floor. “How long have I been here?”

“We only left the ball a few minutes ago.”

“In the fairy realm? How long since you took me away?”

“Took you away?” Ramsay turned briefly from the mirror. “I rescued you.”

“How long?”

“Twenty years.”

Theon’s head spun. Twenty years? He’d been mopping and sweeping and cleaning and fucking Ramsay for _twenty years_? There were days when he felt he’d aged as much as eighty years. But still, staring at his own gaunt reflection for twenty years…how could he have not known? And Ramsay…Ramsay certainly hadn’t aged twenty years.

“Time flows differently here,” Ramsay explained.

That…didn’t explain anything.

“I can take you to your parents’ graves, if you want, to prove it. They’re buried in the cemetery just outside of town, along with your brother.”

Theon only felt numb. “You should let Jeyne go.”

Ramsay quirked an eyebrow at the sudden change of subject. “I have. She’s safely back in Ramsgate.”

“She is?”

“Until tonight. Then she’ll be back for the ball. And the one after that. And so on.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not? It’s what she asked of me.” His voice became a lisping falsetto. “‘Oh, take me away from here, Mr. Fairy. My life as a humble leather worker’s daughter is ever-so-dull and nobody cares about me.’” He laughed. “Sound familiar to you?”

“She’s just a stupid little girl,” Theon said, trying not to think about how he had been a stupid little boy. Twenty years ago. “She doesn’t deserve…” _This_.

Ramsay stepped out of his pants and tossed them aside. “She’s already agreed to let me put a geas on her.”

Theon winced.

Ramsay finished stripping his smallclothes and stalked to the bed. Shoved Theon back onto the mattress and crawled on top of him. “How long do you suppose it will be until I have her begging as well?”

 

***

 

Now, when he had earned a day off, he was allowed to come to the ball. _Made_ to come, in reality. Because even though he was allowed to eat his fill of the fairy food on these days, he dreaded seeing Jeyne.

At first it didn’t seem so bad. She insisted that Ramsay had not hurt her, had in fact rescued her from her tedious life in Ramsgate. She ate the fairy food with abandon and danced wildly, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She laughed, and sometimes Theon could even laugh as well when she told him stories of people he used to know.

“Jon?” he thought to ask. “Is Jon still moping around the village?”

“The changeling?” Jeyne asked in surprise. “I remember him. The other girls thought he was very pretty, but I always…” She bit her lip nervously. “That is to say, he was always nice enough to me, but I always found it unnerving how he never seemed to get any older.”

“What happened to him?”

“He left, a few years back. Said he was going to look for something. Nobody talks about him much.”

The thought made Theon sad. He wished he’d listen to Jon, back when he’d told him not to seek out the fae. Jon, who always seemed to be reaching out to him, but whose hand Theon’s pride had never allowed him to take.

He was thinking about how different things would be if he’d gone to Jon that night his father had hit him, but then Jeyne tripped, pulling him out of his thoughts. He used his hand on her waist to hoist her back up so that they barely missed a step. “Are you alright?”

She shook out her hair. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you. Just a little…” She yawned, hurried to cover her mouth. “Just a little tired. I am not getting much sleep at night.”

And that was when her cracks began to show.

***

 

“I am tired of fairy balls,” she announced one night. Her comment was light, but her voice quivered with fear. “How long do I have to keep dancing?”

Theon didn’t reply.

 

***

 

Every time he saw her, she became more and more wilted, like a rose in a shallow vase. Her face became pale and drawn. The dresses Ramsay gave her began to hang loosely on her frame. Her hair became dull, and she developed circles under her eyes, the color of dark bruising. And yet she danced all evening, with whatever partner Ramsay provided her, as if her feet could not help themselves but follow the steps.

“My father does not know what’s wrong with me,” she said. “I cannot explain to him that I am taken away every night, that I do no sleep. Every time I try to tell him, my throat seizes up and I…” A sob broke her voice.

The geas. She was not allowed to tell anyone, Theon expected.

“I don’t…know how much longer I can go on like this.”

 

***

 

One night, she had a ring of bruises under the high collar of her dress. As if someone had wrapped their hands about her thin neck.

“He says he cannot let me go,” she said when she caught him staring, her voice raspy. “He says if I ask again, I will surely die. But I am so tired, I…” She sniffled. “I just want to go home.”

Theon didn’t know how to comfort her.

“Is there something I can do to go home? To let him let me go?”

Theon didn’t say anything.

“You’re a mortal,” she said, staring up at him with bloodshot eyes. A small hand brushed his cheek. “If there’s anything I could do, anything at all…you’d help me, wouldn’t you?”

They moved through a set of steps in silence.

“I don’t know how,” he responded honestly.

The small smile that had begun to form on her lips dropped away. Theon turned his head, unable to look at the betrayal on her face.

“I-it’s alright,” she lied. “R-Ramsay has offered to let me stay in his castle. Forever.” Her eyes swept the floor. “I’ll never see my friends or family again, but…he says I’ll have my own room and I’ll even get to sleep during the day.” A deep breath through her nose. “Do you…do you think I should take his offer?”

_Then you’ll be just like me_ , Theon thought. On the one hand, perhaps Ramsay would grow tired of him and allow him to die. On the other hand, Jeyne would become his new full-time plaything.

“No,” he said flatly. He couldn’t help her, but maybe he could keep her from making the same mistake he’d made. The way things were now, Ramsay might very well have the poor girl dance herself to death, but that was preferable.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific warnings for this chapter.
> 
> Stay tuned afterwards for an interactive author's note.

Theon paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Working in the laundry room was always hot work. For that reason alone, he liked doing laundry, inasmuch as he “liked” any chores.

He picked up an armful of dirty sheets and dropped them into the nearest empty vat of near-scalding water. The lye, meant to whiten the linen, stung at the cuts on his hands, which would crack and bleed later tonight. But for now, he was warm, and he bent to rub the sheets over the washboard.

He started humming to himself as he worked, some mindless tune his mother had taught him. The only other sound was the sloshing of cloth in the vat. And then there was another sound. Footsteps walking—no, _charging_ —down the hall towards him.

“Reek!”

Theon’s head shot up. That wasn’t Alyn the overseer’s voice. It was Ramsay’s.

And sure enough, a split second later, Ramsay erupted into the laundry room, eyes wide and face red. He stopped short, stared at Theon, nostrils flared. “There you are.” Then he fairly lunged at Theon, knocking the sheets from his hands and grabbing hold of his wrist to yank him to his feet. “Come, I need your opinion.”

Theon followed along without protest, mostly because he didn’t have a choice. Nor did he ask questions, because that wasn’t allowed.

All the while, as Ramsay dragged him through the winding hallways of the castle, he muttered to himself, “Father thinks to keep me from tedious party. He’s right, I don’t want to go. I would rather have his fat wife step on my balls than go to the Bitch Queen’s party. But it’s the principle of the thing, Reek, you understand. Nobody _tells_ me what to do.”

Theon nodded in agreement, though Ramsay was not even looking at him and he didn’t really understand what Ramsay was talking about. The best he could guess, Queen Cersei was to make another appearance at the ball tonight and Roose had forbidden Ramsay from attending. Perhaps because of the stir he’d caused last time?

They came to a room Theon recognized, though one he hadn’t been in since his first day in the castle. The dressing room.

In the center, surrounded on three sides by full-length mirrors, stood Jeyne. Theon had never seen her in the castle during the day. She looked radiant. Her elaborately braided bun hid the brittleness of her hair. Her chalk-white makeup hid the circles under her eyes, while the bright red of her blush and lip paint gave her a wakeful appearance. Skinner had truly outdone himself on her latest dress; thousands of rubies embroidered to her bodice and skirts flashed with every small movement. She could have been a princess.

She was sobbing uncontrollably.

Ramsay thrust Theon forward. “Tell me, Reek, who do you think of Jeyne’s wardrobe?”

Theon’s mouth flapped for a moment. Then he managed, “She looks quite lovely.”

“Is that all?” Ramsay sneered. “Quite lovely?”

Remember Ramsay’s mutterings, he amended, “She looks fit to meet a queen.”

Ramsay smirked. “Do you hear that, Jeyne? Reek thinks you are fit to meet a queen.”

Jeyne wailed and put her face into her hands.

Theon didn’t understand what was going on.

“Jeyne, you should be honored,” Ramsay explained, with a boyish delight in his voice. He came up behind Jeyne and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Unlike my father, the Seelie Queen only throws a ball when there is a great celebration. Few mortals ever get to see its splendor.” He put a thoughtful finger to his lip. “Well, I suppose that’s because the Queen’s hatred of mortals is well-known.” He gave a shrug. “I’m sure no harm will come to you, my dear.”

Jeyne whimpered into her hands.

“You are…taking her to another ball?” Theon asked.

Ramsay whirled on him with a scowl. Then quickly smiled, as if indulging a child. “There is a celebration for the Seelie and Unseelie Courts alike. A grand ball in the Evenwood, on Samhain Eve. The first of its kind in a hundred years. ” He waved his hand dismissively. “Something about bringing the two courts together.”

Something about that phrase… _bringing the two courts together_ …sent waves of déjà vu crashing over him. Joffrey had said those words about his wedding. Was it a wedding? A wedding to Sansa?

Ramsay kept rambling on. “Why are you trembling, my dear? You don’t think those stories of _terrible_ things happening to mortals on Samhain are true, do you? You mustn’t put too much stock in your old mother’s tales. After all, she told you to not trust me, didn’t she?”

Jeyne continued to whimper.

Theon remembered his mother’s stories. How Samhain was the night of year where the fairy world and the mortal world bled together. Where spirits and fairies carried mortals away, never to be seen again. What they did with these poor souls…his mother had told him he was too young and that he would have nightmares if she told him.

He had never found out, but he could well imagine. A fairy ball, on the eve of the fairies’ night, in the presence of a fairy queen who hated mortals…

“Your father might not approve of bringing a mortal to such an important event,” Theon said. Mumbled, more like. He wasn’t questioning Ramsay, after all. Simply pointing out a fact.

Ramsay turned to him. “That’s the idea.”

“Perhaps, um…” He trailed off. He should be quiet. He should let Ramsay do as he pleased. “Perhaps there is someone else…someone who would be a better escort.”

He knew he’d overstepped his bounds when Ramsay spun on him. Still, he expected a smack, a slap. Instead, a hand wrapped around his throat and shoved him up against the wall. Jeyne screamed. Theon instinctively kicked out against the weight pinning him, until he heard an icy voice whisper in his ear, “Don’t you _dare_ strike me, Reek.”

He went limp, all fight fleeing. Gods, he was just as weak as his father had ever accused him of being.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I-I just mean, maybe Myranda would be better.”

“Myranda?” Ramsay scoffed. “Myranda is a whore. Yes, she might offend some of those with more delicate constitutions, but whores as a whole are less than a penny apiece.”

Theon crushed his eyes closed, thinking of all the times Ramsay had called him a whore as he’d pounded into him.

“I…just think…you could do better than Jeyne.”

The hand around his throat tightened. “You’re dangerously close to telling me what to do.”

Theon gagged as he felt his air being cut off.

But only for a moment, because then the grip was loosening. “Unless…” Ramsay leaned in. “You want me to take _you_ to the ball. Is that it, Reek?”

Theon glanced over Ramsay’s shoulder, to Jeyne, who stared back at him with red eyes. Her makeup was a mess of tear tracks. She suddenly looked like a child playing dress up. A frightened child at that.

He didn’t need to get involved in her misery. Gods knew, he had enough of his own to deal with. He didn’t owe her anything, any more than she owed him anything. His father, his brothers had been right: Pity was for the weak. If he hadn’t allowed himself to feel pity for Sansa, he wouldn’t even be in this situation. If he’d never freed her, if he’d never met Robb…

Robb.

If it was Sansa’s wedding, Robb would be there. Wouldn’t he? Sansa and Robb…they wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Would they?

And even if they did…even if they had forgotten him…maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to just see them one more time. Ask them why they had forgotten him.

He moved his eyes back to Ramsay. “Y-yes,” he responded with a weak nod, as much as he could with the hand still around his throat. “I-I’m jealous of her, sir. It should be me who goes to the ball with you. I want to go so badly but…I-I…wasn’t sure how to ask.”

Ramsay’s smile became soft. Which could mean horrible things. But this time, he just released Theon and stroked his chin. “You know how to ask, Reek.”

On unsteady legs, and still puffing to catch his breath, Theon lowered himself to his knees. “I want nothing more in the world than to be by your side.” He didn’t dare look at Jeyne, though he could hear her heavy, panicked breathing. Instead he grasped the hem of Ramsay’s tunic and stared at that, at his own trembling hands. “Please take me to the Queen’s ball, sir. I beg you.”

Ramsay patted his head, like a master petting his beloved dog. “Oh, Reek, how could I deny you after you beg so sweetly? Skinner!”

His sudden shout caused Theon to tense. A moment later, the cadaverous-looking man appeared out of the shadows. “Yes, sir?”

“I want a new outfit made for Reek. And I want it to be your best work yet. Reek is accompanying me to the Seelie Queen’s ball.” He smirked down at Theon. “It will be to die for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need your help to dress Theon. Vote in the comment section for what he should wear to the Queen's Ball:
> 
> A. [This](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/32/d4/42/32d4426eb78530b050e0b1e24a9dabbb--tudor-costumes-costumes-for-men.jpg) dapper gentleman's outfit. 
> 
> B. [This](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/49/b6/2f/49b62fc9fc51be0df07cba3010856ec3.jpg) elaborate lady's dress.
> 
> C. [Cinderella's](http://cdn.madame.de/bilder/cinderella-film-380711.jpg) ball gown, because I just realized Richard Madden played the prince in the live action version. I swear it wasn't intentional when I started this fic.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By an overwhelming (read 100%) majority, Cinderella's dress won yesterday's poll. I hope y'all are happy with yourselves. ;)

Theon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had not left Ramsay’s castle since the day he’d arrived in the fairy realm; he did not know what lay outside. He watched out the carriage window in trepidation as the barren fields of snow gave way to country lanes lined with dead trees. The moon appeared between the branches, full and glowing with an eerie light he had never seen in the mortal world.

His clothing was stiff, bulky. Skinner had made him a dress, different from the one Jeyne had been set to wear. This dress had voluminous skirts made of layer upon layer of stiff, yet somehow impossibly smooth fabric. The corset cinched tightly around his waist, so that he could hardly draw in a full breath, and his bare arms and shoulders prickled slightly with the autumn chill. He had long since grown past any shame in wearing such a garment, though, his attention on the window and what awaited him at the Queen’s Ball.

It felt like they had been driving for hours when lights began to appear along the way, though there were no lanterns that Theon could see. The ground under the carriage’s wheels became more even, and the jostling much smoother.

“We will be there soon,” Ramsay announced. He reached into the lining of his voluminous coat and pulled something out, tossing it at Theon. “Here, put this on.”

Theon took it and studied it. A mask. Shaped like a kraken. Black, but the tentacles flashed the faintest hint of gold in the light. He gave Ramsay a questioning look but didn’t dare question it.

“A masquerade for Samhain,” Ramsay said, affixing his own face mask, a hideous, jagged thing that looked as if it had been made of human flesh. Theon did not study it too hard, for fear that it actually _was_ made of human flesh. “Yours is charmed to protect you,” he continued, either unaware of Theon’s discomfort or secretly pleased. “As long as you wear it, the fair folk will take you as one of their own. Remove it and the illusion will be dispelled. They will see you as the mortal you are. And then…” He gave a shrug. “I cannot promise I can protect you from their wrath.”

Theon hurriedly put the mask on. It hugged tightly to his face.

They began to slow, before pulling to an eventual stop. The entire carriage rocked as Damon—their chauffeur—hopped down from the driver's’s seat. His booted steps echoed on cobblestones as he came around to let them out. Theon’s heart beat matched his steps.

“Oh, one more thing.” Ramsay held out his hand. “Give me your shoe.”

“My—?” Theon quickly bit off the question and took off his heeled shoe, handing it to Ramsay.

Ramsay again reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Something that crunched in his tightly closed fist. He opened his hand and let slide a bunch of jagged, broken glass pieces into the shoe, then handed it back to Theon. “I want you to wear that.”

Theon stared at the glass-filled shoe for a moment. He could refuse, break Ramsay’s geas and kill himself right here and now. Save himself whatever awaited him at the queen’s ball.

But then he would never see Robb.

If Robb was even here.

The possibility made him take the shoe and slide it on. The glass shards cut through his hose and into his feet. He could not even imagine walking on it, let alone dancing on it. But the door was opening and Ramsay was holding out his hand. And so Theon gritted his teeth against it, took Ramsay’s hand, and stepped down from the carriage.

The sharpness of the pain was a shock, but he found that, counter-intuitively, if he pressed down hard, he could at least walk instead of limp along. They had walked a fair distance up a dirt path before he thought he might have the hang of it, and only then did he think to study his surroundings.

Trees crowded in on both sides, branches bent and entwined to create a passageway. The leaves appeared alive with fire—all hues of red, yellow, and orange carpeting the path. The full moon followed them through the branches.

Up ahead, the now-familiar sounds of music and talk drifted over them, but it wasn’t until the tree-lined corridor opened up that Theon could appreciate the sheer size of the Queen’s Ball. It spread over an entire forest. A forest of sparkling lights, gleaming in the trees overhead, along the ground. Guests danced along fairy mounds, while others mingled among the trees, some _in_ the trees. Joyous music filled the air, but Theon could not see where it was coming from.

It looked very much like the fairy balls he’d always imagined from his mother’s stories as a child. The fae looked much more in their element among nature than inside a marble castle. He saw dresses made of leaves and autumn flowers, clothing that rippled like water, strands of fairy light entangled in hair and antlers. He was relieved to see, also, many guests wearing masks as well.

Ramsay led him down a staired footpath, and he fought to keep from cringing with every step. At the base of the stairs, a bear in fancy dress greeted them with a bow. Theon knew he should not be surprised, and yet he was. “Welcome, sirs,” the bear said in a gravelly voice. “Make yourselves comfortable. Our Lady will make her appearance shortly.”

Once they had walked past the bear, Ramsay rolled his eyes. “‘Our Lady.’ What bullshit.”

“The Seelie Queen?” Theon guessed.

“She’s an even bigger bitch than Cersei, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Thinks because she’s the daughter of the First King that she can boss everyone around.”

They received a few stares as they made their way past the partygoers, though judging from the direction of the glances, they were more curious in Ramsay than in the person hanging on his arm. Theon, for his part, scanned the crowd for a hint of red hair. At this point, he would be happy with just a glimpse.

Ramsay seemed to have a destination in mind. He pulled Theon along—much faster than he could walk, especially with broken glass in his shoe—to a stand of trees along a fork in the road. A band of noisy fae had gathered there, laughing and clinking mugs of foamy ale together. Ramsay sidled up in their midst, and Theon supposed they must be friends. At least until one of them, a large man with as much hair as the fancy dress bear, shot him an ugly look. “Ramsay Bolton,” he drawled in a thick brogue. “Didn’t reckon you were invited.”

Ramsay shrugged. “I can’t come to give my respects to your queen?”

“She doesn’t need respects from the likes of you,” a woman in a bear skin dress said.

“Oh, come now,” Ramsay chuckled. “It’s not every day that we find a long-lost prince. And he’s half Unseelie, so, technically, he’s _my_ prince as well. I have a right to be here.”

They all glared at him.

Ramsay seemed to revel in their silent hatred of him. He clapped his hands together. “So, will Prince Robb be making an appearance tonight?”

Theon drew in a sharp breath. Robb. Had Ramsay guessed his true motive for coming to the ball? Had he really been that transparent? Of course he had. There didn’t seem to be a single thing he did that Ramsay didn’t know about beforehand.

The woman curled her lip in distaste. “He will be arriving with the other Starks presently.”

“Good, good. I haven’t spoken with the old boy in…ages.”

“He prefers it that way,” the large man said.

Ramsay ignored him. “I used to run into him all the time in the mortal realm, you know. But these days…” He gave another shrug.

A man with cloak made of seashells grunted. “You should know how the Starks feel about the mortal realm.”

Theon felt a ripple of unease pass through him.

Ramsay just scratched at his head, as if he were baffled. “I’d heard there was some trouble a while back. What exactly happened that soured them on the mortal realm so much?”

The large man opened his mouth to speak, but the shellycoat silenced him with a look. “You know, Ramsay. There’s no need to speak of it here. Tonight is a night of celebration. If you plan on ruining that for Robb or Sansa or any of the Starks…” He clenched his fist. “I would say that I will make this a night of _mourning_ for you father, but I doubt he or anyone else would mourn your passing.”

Ramsay just rolled his eyes. “Did you hear that, Reek? Best not to mention mortals around Robb Stark.”

“Why not?” Theon’s voice sounded tiny to his own ears.

The other fae looked at him, as if noticing him for the first time. He wanted to shrink under their gaze, but he had to direct his question at them.

“Why does Robb not like anyone talking about mortals?”

The woman eyed him skeptically for a moment, then seemed to decide he was genuine. “Well, because he hates mortals,” she said. “All the Starks hate mortals. With a burning passion.”


	14. Chapter 14

Theon felt his heart plummet into his feet. It certainly felt like it was being torn apart by the broken glass in his shoe.

“Robb…hates mortals?”

“All of the Starks do,” the shellycoat said. “They are well-known for it. As of late, at least.” He stroked his beard, bits of wet seaweed clinging to it. “I can see how you’d be confused, if you knew the old Starks. Back when they freely gave their blessings of protection to humans who needed help.” A look of lingering sadness came over his weathered face. “Of course, House Reed has always been…ambivalent towards humans, but even so, to see how the Starks have abandoned all good will towards them…”

Theon suddenly couldn’t breathe. The air was too thick. Was that why Robb had never come for him? Because he hated him? He hadn’t _seemed_ to hate him. In fact, he’d seemed rather grateful. But perhaps when he’d gotten back, when he’d seen the full extent of Sansa’s battered state, when she’d told him how Theon had initially refused to help her…perhaps it had enraged him so much that his gratitude had turned to hate.

“I take it you have not seen the Starks in some time to be caught so off-guard,” the shellycoat continued, leaning forward expectantly. “Are you a friend, perchance?”

It suddenly felt as if this man were examining him for faults. Theon traced along the edge of his mask, hoping its charm had not been another of Ramsay’s lies. It must not have been, because none of them had remarked on his being a mortal.

“He’s Reek,” Ramsay said. “My manservant.”

“Yes,” Theon agreed, staring at the ground. “I am Reek.”

“Well…” Ramsay grabbed his hand. “We must be going. There are many more old friends to catch up with. You will tell Robb I’m here, won’t you?”

Theon’s heart hammered in his toes.

“Not likely,” the woman spat.

Ramsay gave them all a mock bow, and then Theon found himself being dragged along again. “My, my, my,” Ramsay muttered as they went. “Robb Stark has become a veritable human hater. I _had_ heard some rumors, but to think…” He _tsk_ ’d. “What do you think he’d say if he found out I’d brought a mortal? What do you think he’d _do_?”

Theon felt a quivering in his knees. Robb wouldn’t…hurt him, would he? Or perhaps he was in as much danger as Ramsay insisted. That was the thing. If it was just Ramsay’s say so, he could easily imagine it was a lie, engineered to mess with his mind. But those fae back there…they all seemed to know Robb well, and they all agreed he and his family hated mortals.

Ramsay let him linger in his own mind for a while before grasping him by the waist and pulling him over to the nearest fairy mound to join the dancers. “Dance with me, Reek.” He began to fling Theon about with abandon, in time with the merry music.

The glass shards dug into his feet, a fresh stabbing pain with every step. He felt wetness between his toes, knew it was blood. And yet he danced without complaint. The pain barely registered.

_I still want to see him_ , he decided. _And Sansa. I will see if they are well. And try not to be seen. And then I will leave with Ramsay. And then I will try to help Jeyne. I’ll probably fail, but I’ll try. And perhaps I’ll break Ramsay’s geas in the process, and then it will all be over_.

Yes, everything seemed so clear.

They danced for what may have been hours or minutes…or maybe even years, Theon didn’t know. But abruptly the music stopped, with not even a plucked string reverberating. All talk died away just as quickly, and an oppressive silence filled the forest. The air was crackling with energy. Theon felt it in every strand of hair on his body. Something bright was coming down the path.

 “Announcing Her Majesty!” the bear’s gravelly voice announced. “Queen Daenerys of the Seelie Court!”

The brightness became brighter, and Theon shielded his eyes as the procession drew closer. At the head walked a woman wearing a dress made of starlight. If Cersei was the sun, then the Seelie Queen was the moon. Her skin and hair were a pale silver, and her eyes, fixed dead ahead of her, glowed purple in the autumn night. She wore a black dragon’s mask, the only thing about her not radiating cold moonlight. She seemed to glide on the air as she walked.

There was another by her side, their hands delicately linked together. He didn’t glow, and was dressed rather plainly compared to her. Still, he had strikingly beautiful features under his mask of autumn leaves. His mass of curly dark hair was also strikingly familiar, but Theon dismissed that notion quickly. No, surely not…

“Announcing,” the bear continued, “Crown Prince of the Seelie, Jon Snow.”

Well, shit.

Theon watched him as he walked and marveled at the change in his old…friend? Had he and Jon been friends? He contemplated briefly calling out, but that would be rather indecorous, given the circumstances. And he did not want any undue attention drawn to himself. So he remained silent, watching, wondering what had happened since Jon had left Ramsgate.

_He found where he was wanted_ , he thought. Sparing a glance at Ramsay. _Perhaps I have as well_.

The procession continued. Just behind Jon and the Queen came another couple, the same sort of old but ageless as Roose. The woman wore a dress of seaweed and fish bones, though he would not have guessed unless he looked very closely. The man held a severed head—his own, Theon presumed—tucked under his arm and bled a grey mist behind him. And behind them came…

Red hair.

Theon’s breath caught.

Robb, Winter Prince of the Seelie Court, walked with his head up. He wore the same diadem he’d worn that day. He looked every bit as handsome as Theon remembered. Theon wanted to call out to him, even more than Jon. He wanted to grab hold of him, run his hands through his red hair, demand answers of him. But something stronger than impropriety kept him huddled at Ramsay’s side, ducking his head away to avoid eye contact.

Fear.

Fear that Robb would hurt him? Perhaps. But also the fear that Robb _would_ answer his questions, and his answers would not be kind.

Sansa walked beside Robb. Unlike Robb, she looked very different than she had when last he’d seen her. Her red hair had turned a midnight black, falling down her back. She wore a white dress lined in white fur, and her footsteps left frost in her wake. She appeared well enough, but appearances rarely meant anything. Especially among the fair folk.

Behind her came the redheaded boy on the wolf he had seen that day, followed by a young woman wearing a grinning mask that covered her entire face and a young boy with wolf ears and whiskers.

Other fairies followed after that, but Theon did not pay the rest of the procession much mind. His eyes followed Robb, keeping low and using Ramsay as a shield. He watched as the line of fairies, headed by the Queen, marched deeper into the woods, until it came to a stop at the edge of a babbling brook. Jon and the Queen turned to face the partygoers.

“Welcome,” the Queen said, and though she did not raise her voice, Theon heard her as clearly as if she were speaking into his ear. “It is my pleasure to introduce a long lost kin of our Court. He was stolen from his crib as a child, taken to the mortal realm and raised as one of their own. But he is back among his own kind this night. Your Crown Prince, Jon of the Seelie and Unseelie Courts.”

A cheer rose up among the fae.

“Let us celebrate tonight in his honor.”

With another cheer, the music resumed and the dancing and chatter recommenced with renewed energy.

Ramsay pulled Theon back into their dance, and he lost sight of Robb and Sansa as he was flung about. Their steps were hurried, almost frantic to match the music. The trees blurred and the lights began to run together.

“You seem a little nervous, Reek. Truly, there’s nothing to worry about as long as you keep your mask on.”

“I know,” Theon answered meekly.

“Do you?” Ramsay grinned. “Let’s see, shall we?”

And suddenly, he let Theon go mid-twirl, sending him flinging across the mound and crashing into another fae.

“Oh, I…I’m sorry.” Theon hurried to apologize, even though the world was still spinning and he couldn’t get his feet to land properly.

“It’s fine. No harm done.” The ground righted itself as strong arms grabbed hold of him.

Theon looked up. And froze.

Glowing blue eyes looked back at him in astonishment.

Robb.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment you've all been waiting for...

“Are you alright?” Robb asked.

Theon couldn’t answer. Even if he could have found his tongue, he had no answer. Was he alright? He’d dreamed of this exact moment for so long, and yet it felt more dreamlike than anything he’d imagined.

He managed a head bob that might be interpreted as a nod.

Robb smiled. “Would you care to dance?”

He shouldn’t. Oh, he shouldn’t even be here. He should make an excuse and run back to Ramsay.

But of course he wasn’t going to do that.

He nodded. A true nod this time.

He put his hand on Robb’s shoulder; Robb put a hand around his waist. They began to dance. The music, the revelry, the pain in his foot—the entire world faded away.

“I waited for you,” Theon said.

Robb furrowed his brow. “Do I know you?”

A stab of pain in his chest that Robb didn’t immediately recognize him, even with the mask.

“No, Your Majesty,” he said. “I’ve been waiting to see you, is all.”

Robb smiled kindly. “You don’t need to call me Your Majesty. I’m no crown prince.”

“But you _are_ a prince.”

He shrugged. “Call me Robb.”

Theon nodded in acquiescence.

“And what should I call you?”

“Reek,” Theon said. “I’m Reek.”

Robb’s mouth turned into a tight line. “An unusual name.”

“It is what I’m called.” He quickly changed the subject. “How is your sister doing?”

“My sister?”

“Princess Sansa.”

“Oh.” A pause. “She’s well.”

“I heard of her wedding to Crown Prince Joffrey.”

Robb snorted. “There is no wedding.”

“Oh? Did something—? ” Theon quickly closed his mouth, realizing how rude it was to pry. It wasn’t any of his business. It was a _little_ bit of his business.

Robb didn’t seem offended though. “Prick called it off. Claimed Sansa was too low for him to marry. Of course, I would have put an end to it if he hadn’t.” He turned his head and spat. “Worthless shit.”

Despite himself, Theon was relieved. Joffrey had been…thoroughly unpleasant during their brief encounter. Sansa surely deserved better.

“Rumor has it,” Robb went on, “he’s got his sights set on the new Crown Prince. Certainly not ‘too low’ for him.” He snorted in disgust.

“Really?” Theon asked. “Two men?”

“Of course. Men marry all the time,” Robb said, as if it were obvious.

“But…heirs?”

Robb gave him an odd look. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Theon’s mind whirled. If he wasn’t careful, he’d give himself away as a mortal. He wracked his memories for his mother’s stories. “No,” he answered at last with a wry smile. Or, at least, he hoped it was wry. “I’m a solitary fae. No court affiliation.”

Robb nodded, as if that explained it. “Right, you tend to reproduce with mortals…”

A look of utter disgust crossed his face, so full of hatred that Theon knew that Ramsay and the other fae had not been lying. His heart hiccupped to see such an ugly look on that face. But it was gone quickly, Robb dispelling it with an awkward cough.

“There’s not a big need for heirs in the courts. We have plenty of time over our lifespan for that. And if two men or two women need to produce an heir…well, there’s magic for that. Or maybe you haven’t heard the tale of the town of Ulster?”

Theon blushed. Yes, his mother had told him that one.

“Not that Jon would ever entertain the idea of marrying that prat Joffrey,” Robb said. “He’s got plenty on his mind as it is.”

“I can imagine.”

They danced in amiable silence for a few moments. Theon reveled in the pressure on his hip, the solidity of Robb’s hand in his own, the ghost of his breath against his face. It was all he had ever imagined. If he ripped off his mask here and now and Robb struck him dead on the spot, it wouldn’t be the worst way to die.

But he wanted this to keep going, and so he didn’t rip the mask off.

He caught Robb staring at him, though. His blue eyes flicked back and forth as he studied his face.

“I’m sorry,” Robb said when he caught Theon catching him staring. “It’s just…you seem _very_ familiar. Are you _sure_ we haven’t met?”

“When would a prince like you have met a solitary fairy like me?”

“I don’t know, I just…” Robb drew his eyebrows together. “Perhaps you remind me of someone else.”

Theon’s chest constricted. “Who?” he asked breathlessly.

“Oh, just…someone I used to know.”

“A mortal?” Theon held his breath, wondering if he had tipped his hand too heavily.

Robb’s entire face creased in anger. “I don’t have anything to do with mortals. Not after what they did to my sister. Not after what they…” He trailed off. Tensed up his shoulders and relaxed them. The boy with the kind smile was back. “Forgive me.”

“Mortals are a sore sport, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“I never much liked them either.”

They continued to dance. It felt as if the rest of the party had disappeared into some ether, leaving only the two of them. Theon didn’t hear the music, didn’t feel the pain in his foot. Despite the coolness of Robb’s hand, Theon was not cold. He felt warm, to the core. A sort of warmth that didn’t come from begging and tearing and claiming. A contented warmth. If he could stay like this forever…

“Have you thought of joining a court?” Robb asked. “We would welcome you in the Seelie Court.”

Theon shook his head. “I can’t.”

Robb frowned. It seemed odd that he should be so disappointed at a stranger’s rejection. “I understand. But if you ever change your mind…”

“I can’t,” Theon repeated.

This was getting too dangerous. With every passing minute, his resolve to keep his mask in place diminished. He was quickly coming to a choice: reveal himself to Robb and face the fairy’s wrath, or remove himself quickly. The former was quickly winning out, so his logical mind, the one he had long neglected, made the decision for him.

He tore away from Robb.

Robb reached out for him, but Theon turned his head and kept his sights firmly ahead of him. If he looked back, he knew he would fold.

He ran, ducking between dancers, dodging out of their way. Robb’s voice called after him, “Reek!” That name, from Robb’s lips, tore Theon to shreds.

He knew Robb would follow, that he was faster and would catch up with ease. So he did the only thing he could think of. And how daring. He saw a familiar face milling about in the shade of a rowan tree. He grabbed that familiar face by the hand. “Care to dance?”

Jon blinked in surprise but offered no resistance as they melted in with the other dancers. Over the shoulder of another dancing couple, Theon caught Robb’s confused face scanning the crowd for him. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, still with that bewildered look to him. “Do I know you or…?”

“Just thought you looked lonely,” Theon said with his best winning smile. Or, at least, he hoped was his best winning smile. “What is the Crown Prince of the Seelie doing sulking by himself during his own party?”

Jon’s face turned back to its familiar sullenness. There was the boy he’d known from Ramsgate. “I’m not too keen on parties.”

“Mmm,” Theon agreed. “Me neither. Had my fill of them.”

Jon gave him an odd look.

“So,” Theon continued, to change the subject, “what’s it like being a long lost prince?”

Jon was silent a moment. Even his mask seemed contemplative. “I’m not sure,” he answered at last. “Up until about a month ago, I thought I was just an average changeling. The villagers where I grew up never trusted me. My mother hated me.” He gave a small shrug. “I can’t blame her. I wasn’t hers. Someone stole her own child away in the middle of the night and put me in its place.” He grew silent. “I sometimes wonder what happened to that child. If it’s still alive somewhere in the fairy realm.”

“You were stolen too,” Theon pointed out.

“Yes, I guess I wasn’t meant to be a changeling. And now it turns out my birth mother was a Seelie princess and my father was King of the Unseelie. I…am still getting used to the idea.”

“You’ve finally found a place where you belong,” Theon said. “Jon.”

Jon looked at him then. “Who are you?”

“I…” Theon stammered. “No one.”

Jon shook his head. “I’ve met No One. You’re not No One. Who are you?”

“I’m Reek.”

Jon pulled him closer on their next turn. “You knew me before.” It wasn’t a question. “Back in Ramsgate?” That part was.

Theon shook his head. “I’m a travelling solitary fairy. We might have met once, but—”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “No, I _know_ you.”

Theon took a step back, but Jon grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. Reached out with inquisitive fingers. Before Theon could even flinch, Jon reached up and tugged at his mask. Whatever magic had affixed it to his face, the mask pulled away at Jon’s probing touch.

And then Jon was staring at him, kraken mask in his hands, mouth slightly agape. “Theon? Wh…what are you—?”

Theon didn’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. He shoved him back roughly and took off running. Heads swiveled his way, and he heard startled murmurs of, “A mortal?” He ignored them. He couldn’t afford to hesitate, or they would be on him. His old cowardice had returned as his earlier notion that he would be fine dying by their hands—by Robb Stark’s hands—dissipated in an instant.

He ran as fast as he had ever run. It felt as if he were being propelled by some magical force.

His foot caught on a root. He toppled and landed on the dirt path. And even then he didn’t stop. He scrabbled to his feet, grabbing at whatever he could to gain purchase.

“This way, Reek!”

Theon saw Ramsay, waving from the open door of his carriage. Where—? When—? No time for questions. Theon launched himself for the safety of the carriage.

“Stop!” someone shouted after him.

He didn’t stop.

A chorus of shouts followed after them. “Stop! Halt! Your Crown Prince commands you!” Ramsay and Damon countered with commands of, “Hurry! Faster!”

Theon threw out his arms, reaching for Ramsay. Ramsay’s warm hand met his, and he was yanked bodily off his feet and into the carriage. Ramsay kicked the door closed and then rapped on the roof of the cabin. “Drive, Damon!”

With the sound of a whip cracking, the horses whinnied and burst into a gallop. The entire carriage lurched. Theon was thrown against the seat. They tore down the tree-lined path, breaking branches as they went. Ramsay stuck his head out the window, wind whipping in the air, and laughed. A mad cackling that made Theon shudder.

“How exciting!” he whooped, taking a seat across from Theon and clapping his hands. “You caused such a stir.”

Theon hadn’t moved, trying too hard to catch his breath.

“Father will be—” Ramsay stopped short with a frown. “Get your feet off the cushions, Reek.”

Theon hurried to obey. And only then did he notice he had left a trail of blood behind him. Somewhere in his mad dash, he’d left his shoe behind.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some long awaited answers.

Robb had not always hated mortals. There had been a time when he was rather fond of them. They intrigued him, the way they grew and changed. He used to like watching them. He used to like granting them small favors—helping children lost in the woods find their way home, pointing divining rods towards water, bringing a cool breeze to farmers in the field. It gave him a certain satisfaction.

Until Sansa disappeared.

For five long days they searched for her. In all her usual haunts—the forest, Catelyn’s river, Ned’s forest. Their search came to nothing. Sansa was beyond their reach, hidden somewhere behind stone walls where they could not call to her—or her to them.

Catelyn ordered the search widened, to the human villages along the river, to leave no stone unturned. Which proved to be a tricky thing, as many of the homes had wards against the fae. Their search, again, came to nothing.

Hope was beginning to fade. The longer Sansa was kept from her rivers and streams, the grass and moss and small winter birds she tended to, the weaker she would become, until she finally died, alone and far from her family. They were running out of time.

And then, unexpectedly, Robb heard her voice. So faint. Calling out to him from a fairy grove near one of the river villages. He flew to her. And found her in a wretched state. And not just her, but a mortal man, struggling to keep her alive. There had been fear in the young man’s eyes as Robb had made himself known. He couldn’t have known the overwhelming relief, the gratitude, Robb felt in that moment.

“You saved our sister,” he said. “We are grateful.”

“It was…” The human swallowed nervously. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. He’d been startled when the mortal had asked only for a lock of his hair in return for his kind deed. Robb had given it gladly, with the promise that his appreciation had not yet been repaid in full.

For the next few days, he and his parents and siblings had stayed close to Sansa’s side as she’d healed. Being back among her people, in the clarity of nature, had done wonders for her. Though the black marks around her ankles, wrists, and neck never healed. Not fully. And there was a guardedness to her. Her curiosity had been torn from her, and she no longer went to the mortal realm, not even to bathe in the water of their mother’s river.

Catelyn, of course, had never been fond of mortals. The months that followed Sansa’s return saw a record number of drownings in her river, fishermen she lured in. Even Ned, who had borne no real grudge against the mortals, took an uncharacteristic delight in running them down on the road on dark nights. But Sansa never hated them. She feared them, yes, but Robb knew she felt as he did—that they owed her safe return to a mortal.

He stayed away from the mortal world, despite often feeling that mortal’s footsteps in the fairy grove where he had found Sansa. It would be dangerous. If someone were to catch them, someone who did not approve of humans, who wished them harm in retribution for what had been done to Sansa… It didn’t bear thinking on. And so Robb stayed and listened from afar.

He learned that the mortal’s name was Theon—funny he had not thought to ask, though he had given his own. He learned that Theon did not like his life in the village, that his father often berated him and his brothers often beat him. He learned that Theon had a sensitivity to him that other mortals did not approve of; they thought him weak, bothersome, burdensome. Robb did not understand it. It was that sensitivity that had made Theon save Sansa. Sansa said so herself, how he had struggled to ignore her pleas for help before going against the village lord’s will.

Robb vowed that when his family’s anger and desire for revenge had died down, he would go to Theon again. But when that day finally came, when he felt it was safe, Theon was nowhere to be found.

Robb searched the village, until he found two young men, villagers, hauling wood for a fire. In their idle chatter, the name “Theon” sprang out at him. It was winter by then, Robb’s specialty, and he followed behind them on the wind, undetected, listening.

“S’pose that little fucker’s dead by now?”

“For certain. Think a fancy boy like him would survive even a day in this weather?”

They shared a laugh. Robb felt anger flare in his chest.

“Miss him sometimes.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Asha’s no fun. Bitch almost cut my fingers off with her knife the other day.”

The other one shrugged. “She blames us for driving him off.”

“She should blame _him_ for being so weak.”

“Yeah, we toughened _her_ up, didn’t we? If anything, we went _easy_ on the brat.”

Robb reached out for that one. Put his icy cold hand on the back of the mortal’s neck.

The mortal gasped. Choked. His skin sizzled with the cold.

“Maron?” The other one prodded him. “Maron, what’s wrong?”

Maron fell over dead as every organ in his body froze solid. The other one, whose name Robb never got to learn, stared in disbelief before dropping his bundle of wood and running like a madman from the woods.

Robb contemplated chasing. But in the end he didn’t. He decided that would be his last mercy for _any_ mortal. If they chose to drive out the kindness in their midst, the kindness that had saved Sansa’s life, then they didn’t deserve kindness in return.

_I should have come for him sooner. If I had known mortals were just as cruel to other mortals as fae are..._

Sansa wept when he told her, about how the mortals had driven Theon from their village, that he was nowhere to be found now despite an exhaustive search of the mortal realm. She wept, then quickly dried her eyes and held her head up high. “I’m done being at the mercy of them,” she stated. “I refuse to let them take any more from me.” And from that day on, her visage had become like ice.

She became…not cruel, exactly. But the happy, cheerful girl she’d been was gone. Another reason to hate the mortals.

Months and seasons passed in the mortal realm, and Robb held tightly to his anger.

Until one day, lounging along the river, frozen in mid-winter, he heard the crunching of boots through the snow. He glanced up sharply to see one of the villagers emerging through the trees. His hackles were immediately up. No mortal should have been able to sneak up on him like that. And as he gathered a killing frost to his fingers, he called out a warning to the stranger, “Stop where you are!”

The man froze, caught unaware. Their eyes met.

Robb lowered his hand. “You’re fae?”

The man nodded.

“And yet you smell like them?” Of smoke from their fireplaces, dust, and dryness.

“I…I’m a changeling.”

Robb eyed him skeptically. “What is your name?”

“Jon Snow.” He hitched up the pack on his back. “I’m looking for a way into Fairy.”

“Where are you from?”

“Ramsgate.”

“Do you…did you know a mortal named Theon Greyjoy?”

It turned out he had, many years ago. They had been…he used the word “friends,” though Robb did not think that was entirely true. Nonetheless, Jon had many stories to share, and in him Robb sensed the same sort of sensitivity he’d found in Theon. Though Jon did not hide his so well. Robb wondered if that was the true reason for his discomfort among the mortals.

He didn’t realize, when he took Jon to the winter palace, that he had found the long lost Crown Prince of the Seelie. He only found this out after he’d been hosting the young man for several weeks, when a servant from Queen Daenerys arrived, saying the Queen had had a vision regarding a newcomer to the fairy realm. Upon meeting face to face, she confirmed what her vision had told her: Jon was her nephew, the child of Princess Lyanna and King Rhaegar, stolen from his crib as a child by enemies unknown.

The Queen announced a grand ball. A Samhain ball. She wanted to welcome Jon back to his rightful home where all the fair folk would attend. She did not, Robb noted, ask Jon what he wanted.

 

***

 

Robb upturned the shoe. Broken glass spilled out, like sand in an hourglass, littering the ground with bloody shards. That explained the bloody footprints, leading up to where Theon had disappeared into the carriage and sped off.

“Are you sure?” Sansa asked him. Her voice cut through the sea of murmurs all around him. “It was really him?”

 “Yes,” Jon answered for him. He tore off his mask and let it fall to the ground, then ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “It was Theon.”

Robb clutched the shoe to him. “Find him.”


	17. Chapter 17

They interviewed the partygoers. Howland Reed gave him a name.

Ramsay Bolton.

Fuck.

Robb had never liked that sleazy fuck. And Ramsay had never liked him. He half-suspected Ramsay had targeted Theon simply to spite him. But perhaps it was just chance. Ramsay had a reputation for tormenting mortals.

He thought now about all the rumors he’d heard, ignored over the years, as his carriage pulled up to Dreadfort Castle. Gods, but it was bleak on this side of Always Winter. He couldn’t remember the last time he had attended one of Lord Roose’s balls. Well, here he was. It seemed the Boltons were long overdue for a visit.

 

***

 

Theon scrubbed at the ballroom windows from high atop his ladder. It was not overly taxing work, more tedious due to the constant up-and-down climbing to re-wet his rag. Not to mention the wooden rungs biting into his injured foot, constantly reopening the cuts there so that he trailed blood up and down. Ramsay would have him clean that up afterwards, no doubt.

Despite all that, Ramsay had seemed rather pleased when they’d returned last night. Theon guessed it was because his point had been made.

He’d been fairly giddy when he’d hollered to have a servant sent up to tend his foot. Theon couldn’t remember, in all the time he’d been here, having been tended for any injury. Ramsay must truly be in a good mood.

Or so he assumed, until he saw who appeared in the doorway, carrying a healer’s basket. Dressed in a ratty old dress.

Jeyne must have seen the look of surprise on his face, because she ducked her head in shame as she knelt to wrap his foot. “I took Ramsay’s offer,” she murmured. “Please don’t be mad. I’m just so…tired.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “I’m weak.”

“No.” Theon bent over to still her hand. He wished she’d held out for a few more days, just to let him _try_ to help her, but he couldn’t be angry at her. “A weak person wouldn’t have held out this long.”

Her eyes shot to the other side of the room, where Ramsay was recounting the evening’s events to Alyn, Skinner, and Myranda, all to uproarious laughter. Then her eyes shot back to him. “I think I have something that can help us,” she whispered. “Do you remember that my father is a leather worker?”

Theon nodded.

He felt something cold and solid slide into his hand. He didn’t dare look down.

“I stole it from his workshop before Ramsay took me away for good. It’s an awl. It’s iron.”

Theon’s eyebrows shot up.

She put a finger to her lips. “It will hurt them. Not kill them, it’s not big enough. But if you use it at the right time…”

Theon nodded in understanding and slipped it into his pocket. And later, he’d hooked it into the lining of his burlap sack. It sat heavy on his hip now as he climbed back up the ladder, foot stinging with every rung. True, he wasn’t sure when or if he would ever be able to use the awl. Use it to…what? Burn Ramsay? Then what? He couldn’t run. Perhaps as a last _fuck you_ to the crazy bastard. Perhaps he would use it to burn his dick off. The thought gave him a vicious glee, and he scrubbed at the window with renewed energy.

His thoughts were still on the face Ramsay would make when Ramsay himself came stomping into the ballroom and kicked the ladder out from under him. Theon crashed twenty feet to the ground and landed with a dull thud on the marble ground that sent every bone in his body stinging. He also seemed to have bitten through his lip, judging by the blood filling his mouth.

No time to clear the ringing in his ears, though. Ramsay was grabbing his arm and hauling him up. “Up, you lazy good-for-nothing,” he hissed, fairly dragging him along. “Hurry up!”

Theon struggled to match Ramsay’s pace, aching and confused.

Ramsay yanked him roughly through the hallways, following the familiar path back to the cell Theon called his room. The entire way, he muttered darkly under his breath, nothing that Theon could make out. Last night’s good mood had dissipated entirely.

When they reached the room, Ramsay unceremoniously threw him. “Keep. Quiet.” And with those words, he slammed the door. A moment later, the lock clicked.

Theon sat stunned for several minutes. Ramsay had never locked him in before. What would be the point? It wasn’t like he could _leave_.

Then he heard a noise, a very distinct noise. The sound of wheels on gravel. He shot up and limped on his bleeding foot to the wide window. Peered out. A carriage had arrived out front. And exiting that carriage…someone with brilliantly red hair.

 

***

 

 “Prince Robb, Princess Sansa,” Roose greeted them, face as still and grim as Robb remembered. He offered the faintest of nods towards Jon. “Crown Prince. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We’re here for your son,” Robb replied, trying to keep his voice as level as Roose’s. Which was impossible, of course. Roose was a master at not tipping his hand. “We want to speak with him.”

“Of course.” Roose gestured for them to come in.

As they entered, Robb remembered why he hated the Dreadfort so much. The ceilings were too high, the hallways too narrow, and with only the occasional torch decorating the wall, its interior was as barren and bleak as the landscape outside.

Roose led them to a sitting room. “I will fetch him for you.” And then he turned and left them.

Jon shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t like this place,” he muttered, jiggling his knee up and down. “Feels like I’ve been here before.”

“You have?” Robb asked.

Jon frowned, looked around the room. “Just… _feels_ like it,” he repeated.

“Hopefully,” Sansa said, hands folded primly on her lap, “we won’t be here long.”

Robb had his doubts about that. What were the chances Ramsay was willing to hand Theon over? And would Theon even _want_ to come?

Soon they heard the thunking of boots in the hallway. Ramsay appeared in the doorway, hair disheveled and breath coming rapidly, as if he had run here. He paused to tuck some loose strands behind his ear, where Robb noticed the flash of a bloodstone earring. He had never seen Ramsay without it.

“Robb Stark.” He didn’t acknowledge the others. “Father says you would like to speak with me.”

Robb looked to Sansa, who simply nodded for him to take the lead.

“You’re harboring a mortal here,” Robb stated, “by the name of Theon Greyjoy. We would very much like to speak with him.”

Ramsay leaned against the doorframe, eyes rolling upwards, as if trying to recall something. “Um…nope,” he said. “No one here by that name. You must be mistaken.”

Robb clenched his fists. “Howland Reed says he saw you at the Queen’s Ball last night in the presence of a man we later found out to be a mortal in disguise.”

“Me?” Ramsay sneered. “You think I would bring a mortal around when I know full well how you feel about them?”

_Yes_ , Robb thought. “He says you introduced this man as Reek.”

Ramsay’s smile tightened. “Oh,” he cried, as if with some great revelation. “Oh, you’re talking about _Reek_. Yes, I know him. He’s a mortal?”

Jon’s eyes twitched. Sansa shot him a quick look and shook her head.

“We want to speak with him,” Robb repeated.

Ramsay spread his arms out wide. “I’m afraid he doesn’t live here.”

“And _I’m_ sure he does,” Robb argued.

They glared at each other, neither willing to back down.

“I do have one mortal in my employ, currently,” Ramsay said. “I’ll go fetch her.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and left.

“I don’t like this,” Jon repeated.

“He’s lying,” Robb said.

“Of course he is,” Sansa agreed, getting to her feet. “He’s a known liar. We will have to find Theon on our own.”

“Can we do that?” Jon asked. “Just…search someone else’s castle?”

Robb gave him a knowing smile. “You’re new to being a Crown Prince, aren’t you?”

 

***

 

Why was Robb here? Theon didn’t doubt he had followed him from the party, but why go through all that trouble? Did he intend to punish the mortal who’d dared flee from him? Or was he simply seeking answers, as Theon had been last night?

He was torn. On the one hand, he was terrified. On the other, he’d never expected to see the winter prince again. There had been so much left unsaid at the dance last night, so much he’d wanted to say and ask. If it were up to Ramsay, those things would be left unsaid. Theon was done leaving things up to Ramsay.

Jeyne’s awl was still on him. He took it out, examined it. It wasn’t quite the shape of a lock pick, but it would do.

It took him longer to pick the lock on his cell than it had to pick the lock on Sansa’s cage. His fingers were less dexterous—chapped, gnarled at the joints from working with his hands—but it still posed no real challenge to him. His joints might be rusty, but his lock picking skills were not.

The lock opened with a satisfying click, and Theon pushed it open slowly and peered out. No one about. Not unusual for this time of day. He put the awl back in the lining of the burlap, knowing it would come in handy if Ramsay or one of the servants were to catch him.

Ramsay had told him to keep quiet, not keep still. He’d given no order against finding Robb, merely speaking. Not that Theon intended to remain silent if he found the winter prince. If speaking meant breaking Ramsay’s orders, breaking his geas, and death was to follow…well, there it was.

At the last minute, he turned back to his room and grabbed the bit of Robb’s hair he kept under his pile of straw. He tucked that next to the awl, then set out down the hall. Creeping. That was the thing about being barefoot. It made hardly any noise on the stones.

He kept his back pressed to the chilled wall and inched along, senses on alert. When he came to a corner, he poked his head out slowly, checking all possible directions before continuing. He figured Robb would be in the receiving room, a place he had often dusted and swept and mopped during his daily chores. Ramsay’s endless tasks had given him a learned familiarity with the castle; he could probably find his way about in the pitch dark.

The faint sound of footsteps echoed from up ahead in the hall. Theon pressed himself into an alcove, hidden away from the lights of the sconces, and held his breath. The sound of hushed voices followed. He willed the thumping of his heart between his ears to still so that he could hear.

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” A male voice.

“Yes. No. It’s been a while, alright.” Another male voice.

“Right now we’re simply looking for a servant to ask.” A female voice.

Their voices just whispers, Theon didn’t recognize them. Curious, he peeked around the edge of the alcove.

In the light of the torches, he saw two heads of dark hair, and one a flaming red. His heart nearly burst.

“Ro—!”

His yell was cut short by a hand wrapping around his mouth. “Shh,” Skinner’s voice hissed into his ear. “You’re not supposed to be here, little mortal.”

Theon tried to cry out, but he was unable as Skinner dragged him back into the darkness and melted in with the shadows.


	18. Chapter 18

“Found him trying to escape, sir.” Skinner tossed Theon at Ramsay’s feet.

Boots circled around him. He didn’t know what room he was in, just that the floor was cold and hard. “Is that true, Reek? Were you trying to escape?”

Theon hugged the ground, not daring to look up at Ramsay. Even when a hand roughly grabbed the collar of his “shirt” and hauled him up.

“What were you hoping to accomplish?”

Theon’s hands tensed.

“Gut him, Ramsay.” That was Myranda’s voice. “You don’t want ingrates like that around.”

“Right you are, Myranda.” Ramsay dropped Theon. Theon winced.

He could hear the delight in her voice. “I’ll help you. We could feed him to the barghest.”

“Hmm.”

Ramsay delivered a resounding slap to her face. Almost as loud as her surprised gasp. Theon lifted his head to see her reeling back, clutching her face.

“Tell me what to do again, bitch, and I’ll feed _you_ to the barghest.”

“Y-yes, sir,” she whimpered.

Ramsay had gathered his lot—Myranda, Skinner, Alyn, Damon. Their backs were turned to him. Though not for long, he wagered. Drawing a deep breath, Theon reached for his awl.

“Keep him hidden here,” Ramsay said to Damon, “until Robb Stark and his cohorts leave. I don’t want them finding him.”

His hand wrapped around the wooden handle. He would only have one shot.

“I’m counting on you.”

Theon pushed himself up to his hands and knees.

“Now, I’ve got to go find our gue—”

As Ramsay turned, Theon launched himself. Awl held like a knife, he stabbed out. Aiming for Ramsay’s eye.

He wasn’t fast enough. Or strong enough.

Ramsay caught him with ease, one hand around his thin neck, the other holding his wrist at an odd angle, pointing the awl away from his face. “My, how _bold_ of you, Reek.”

Damon took the awl from Theon’s hand, and quickly dropped it with a gasp. It clattered to the floor. “Iron!” he hissed.

Ramsay didn’t seem too troubled by that. If anything, his grin became wider. “Now, where did you get a dangerous toy like that?”

Theon gagged.

“Is there anything else you’re hiding?” Ramsay’s hand plucked at the burlap sack and came away with a tuft of red hair. He held it up at eye-level, so that Theon could see him studying it. “Ah.” A small sound, but one that carried a revelation. He dropped Theon again then turned to Myranda. “Burn this, would you?”

Myranda reached out, her arm shaking, as if she expected some sort of trick. The side of her face was rapidly turning an angry red. She grasped the lock and then held it close to her chest, like a flimsy shield against further abuse.

Ramsay turned to the other fae. “Keep him here,” he repeated, jabbing a finger at the floor. “I mean it.” Then he straightened the collar of his shirt and brushed the stray strands of hair behind his ears. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see to our guests.”

 

***

 

Their search for a servant who might tell them where Theon was brought them to the ballroom. A massive room with a high ceiling. Cold light streamed in through dusty windows. Someone had been trying to wash them recently, evidenced by the fallen ladder and bucket of soapy water. Someone who had left a trail of bloody footprints behind them.

Robb sucked in a breath. “Theon cut his foot last night.” He knelt down to the nearest print. “His left foot.” The prints were all left feet.

“He left here in a hurry,” Sansa noted, following the trail with her eyes. “Ramsay is hiding him from us.”

Some fae magic that Robb couldn’t detect must be at work, because at the mention of his name, who should appear but Ramsay himself, a waifish serving girl in tow. She kept her head down, and Ramsay spoke as if she weren’t in the room. “I searched, but there seems to be no one named, uh…what was that name?”

“Theon Greyjoy.”

“Yes, I searched and there’s no one in the castle by the name, let alone a mortal.” He nodded to the girl. “Jeyne is the only mortal in this castle at the moment, and she can confirm it.”

“It’s true, m’lords,” she muttered, eyes still on the floor.

Jon furrowed his brow and leant towards her. “I know you,” he said.

She lifted her head to reveal large eyes, red-rimmed and brimming with tears.

“You’re Jeyne Poole,” Jon said. “From Ramsgate.”

She looked to Ramsay, as if asking him what to do.

“I saved Jeyne from that shit hole,” he said with a laugh.

“Jeyne.” Jon grabbed for her hand, and she went completely rigid. “Is there another mortal here with you, in this castle, named Theon?”

“N-no,” she answered, once again looking at Ramsay. “There’s no one by that name here.”

The girl was clearly under duress.

“Enough of this,” Robb said. “Leave the poor girl out of your games, Ramsay.”

Ramsay blinked innocently. “What games?”

“I know you’re keeping Theon here. If you don’t let me see him, I will come back with the Queen Daenerys and _make_ you hand him over. I will come back with Queen _Cersei_ if need be.”

Ramsay just smiled. “You sure are putting in a lot of effort over one little mortal. Perhaps your energy would be better spent looking for him elsewhere.”

Robb clenched his fist. “You’re calling my bluff?”

“Bluff?” Ramsay barked with laughter. “If you think either Queen will step in on behalf of some mortal—who isn’t even _here_ , by the way—then be my guest.” He bowed, mockingly showing them the way out.

Tendrils of icy cold hatred laced their way up from Robb’s belly. The same hatred he’d felt that day when he’d struck Maron dead in the woods. Killing frost gathered in his fingertips. It had killed a mortal with ease, but would it kill Ramsay? He was also a creature of winter.

Before he could do something stupid, he felt a hand on his wrist. He looked up to see Sansa.

“You haven’t even offered us any tea yet,” she said.

Robb blinked in surprise. As did Ramsay.

“It’s customary to offer guests tea, is it not? Or would you send us away without the proper hospitality.”

Ramsay rubbed at the back of his head. “Would you…care for some tea?”

“We would love some,” Sansa replied with a smile. “Sugar and milk for Jon. Robb prefers his plain. I would like a squeeze of lemon, if possible. Do you think you can manage that?”

Ramsay looked to Jeyne.

“I…don’t know where the kitchens are…sir.” She flinched, as if he might hit her.

And he looked like he might have, if they hadn’t been present. As it was, he simply scowled and grabbed her by the wrist. “Come along, you useless girl. I’ll show you where they are.” Over his shoulder he called, “We’ll be right back.”

Robb shot his sister a questioning look.

She had a knowing little smirk on her face. “There’s someone in the shadows over there trying to get our attention.”

A fae woman took a tentative step into the ballroom. Quickly looked around, twice in the direction Ramsay had disappeared in, and then hurried out. She had something clutched in her hand. “You’re Prince Robb?” she asked.

“I…yes?”

Robb blinked again when she thrust the thing in her hand at him. He held it in his palm a moment, studying it, not quite understanding what he was looking at until… “This is…my hair?” He absently ran a hand through his hair. Remembered cutting a lock of it. As a gift to a mortal. “Theon.”

“I can take you to him,” the woman said, looking around. “Only…you won’t tell _him_ , will you?”

“Who are you?” Jon asked.

An odd look came over her face. Something between anger and fear. “Someone who wants Theon Greyjoy out of this castle as much as you do.”


	19. Chapter 19

Theon curled in on himself as Alyn’s kicks grew harder.

“Careful,” Damon called from somewhere that sounded a million miles away. “Ramsay won’t be happy if you damage him too much.”

“I’m not hitting his face,” Alyn grunted, delivering a particularly brutal kick to Theon’s ribs. “And anyway, we’ll get Myranda to fix him up nice and pretty-like before Ramsay gets back.”

“Myranda. Where is that whore?”

“Fuck if I know or care.”

“What should we do with this?” That was Skinner, speaking, no doubt, about the awl. No one had gathered to courage to approach it yet.

“Get rid of it,” Damon said.

Theon groaned as Alyn flipped him over with one foot, prodding him, like a child trying to get a pill bug to uncurl. There had been a time when he would have taken their beating without a fight, perhaps even hoped they would kill him in the process. But he’d _seen_ Robb in the hallway. He was looking for him. Jon and Sansa were too. They hadn’t sounded like they were eager for his blood. And perhaps it was his hopeful imagination, but they’d sounded almost…worried? Could it be? Were they…were they here to help him?

It seemed farfetched, and he didn’t see any way they _could_ help him, not while he was still bound by Ramsay’s geas. But the thought that they wanted to…

He wasn’t going to roll over and give up.

Alyn’s prodding became more impatient, and he began stomping on Theon’s shoulder.

“Mortals are _fragile_ , Alyn,” Damon said with a definite warning in his voice now. “You could kill him if you’re not careful.”

“I’m _being_ careful,” Alyn insisted as his boot slammed into the back of Theon’s head. “This little fucker could benefit from a good beating.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

Alyn snorted. “It _is_ my call to make. Ramsay gave me the right to punish him when he acts out.”

“And if you kill him? How do you think Ramsay will punish _us_ if you kill his favorite pet?”

Alyn stopped his stomping and turned to Damon with a growl. “I don’t like your tone.”

“And I don’t give a shit. Ramsay gave me the right to punish _you_ if _you_ step out of line.”

They continued to argue, shoving each other, but Theon wasn’t listening. His attention was focused squarely on the awl, several yards away. When Skinner went over to try to break up the fight, he saw his chance.

He crawled, slowly at first, heart hammering in his chest, between his ears, in the bleeding cuts on his foot. So loudly it drowned out the angry voices. He dragged himself, then crawled on hands and knees. Slowly, quietly, so as not to gain their attention. If he could just…

“Hey!”

The shout urged him to abandon that tactic. In a flash, he was making a mad dash for the awl. He launched himself, crashing face-first into the floor. His hand grappled about, and the minute it was in his grasp, he flipped himself over, sharpened end of the awl out like a tiny knife. Damon, looming over him, pulled back with a start.

“Easy there,” he said, mimicking for Theon to set it down.

“Drop it,” Alyn barked, “or so help me I’ll…”

Theon scooted backwards, still brandishing his pathetic weapon. “If you come any closer, I’ll stab this in your throat. Maybe Myranda can heal you up all pretty-like after that.”

“Why you little—” Alyn made a grab at him.

Theon jabbed it into his palm. The sharp end cut through flesh, but it was the sound of _sizzling_ that made Theon wince. Alyn reeled back, clutching his hand, which smoked and filled the room with the smell of burning flesh.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Theon swallowed and propped his back up against the wall. “Next one gets to lose an eye.”

Skinner and Damon looked at the awl as if it were a burning hot poker. They made no attempts to come closer as Alyn writhed on the floor screaming, “Fuck!”

Slowly, using the wall for support, Theon leveraged himself to his feet. Never once did he take his eyes off them, or lower the awl. Funny to think, just a tiny piece of metal was keeping them at bay. He edged towards the door.

“Don’t you do it,” Damon snarled. “The minute you turn your back…” He left the threat hanging heavily on the air.

“I’m done taking orders from you.” One-handed, and with his back to the door, he reached for the knob. “If you want to stop me, you’ll have to kill me. I doubt Ramsay will be happy about that.”

Damon’s hands clenched into his fists. “ _When_ we catch you, you’ll _wish_ you were dead.”

He’d already wished that a thousand times. And now he was done talking to Damon. He popped the door open and slipped out. Then slammed it, knowing a closed door would only afford him a fraction of a second but desperate for anything to give him any extra time to put distance between him and them. And Skinner didn’t even need to use the door. He really didn’t have near as much time as he would have liked.

No sense in lamenting it. He turned and ran down the hallway. His legs pumped, his feet slapped against the ground, and yet he couldn’t seem to summon that otherworldly speed that had carried him to the carriage last night. Behind him, the door crashed open; ahead of him, the hallway seemed to stretch longer and longer.

There was no hope. There was no chance—

He crashed into something. Someone. The sound of shattering glass and clattering metal echoed off the walls. He found himself on the ground, in a puddle of scalding hot water.

“You clumsy girl!”

“Not so fast!”

“Over here!”

Voices came at him from every direction. He didn’t know what had happened, what _was_ happening. There was only the need to run, but he couldn’t seem to right himself. Not until a strong hand wrapped around his neck and hauled him up.

“Reek.” Ramsay bared his teeth. “I told those idiots not to let you leave the room. I specifically told them—”

Theon tightened his grip on the awl and stabbed at the hand holding him.

Ramsay cursed and released him. He clutched at his hand, but he didn’t fall over and writhe the way Alyn had. In fact, he recovered quickly, anger and the promise of pain blazing in his eyes. Theon took a step backwards, holding out his little weapon. Which didn’t seem to affect Ramsay much at all. Was he just that powerful? His throat squeezed closed.

“Don’t touch him!”

Ramsay was knocked off his feet, battered against the wall. At first Theon didn’t see what happened. But then he saw Sansa, _Princess_ Sansa, pinning Ramsay to the wall with one hand. Her hair whipped about her, as if caught in a wind, and yet her face remained placid. So placid it sent a chill through Theon’s body.

“Stop!” The sound of running footsteps abruptly halted. “This mortal is under my protection now.”

As Theon was staring at her, a hand appeared in front of his eyes, reaching out for him. Without thinking, he took it. It was smooth and cool and familiar. He was hauled to his feet and found himself face to bare face with Robb Stark, Winter Prince of the Seelie.

“Are you alright?”

Theon thought he might cry at the gentleness of his voice. “I just needed to see you.”

Robb  stared at him a moment, as if looking for something. Some trick, maybe. “It’s you, isn’t it?” He caressed Theon’s face, as if checking if he were really there. “I thought you were…” He trailed off. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

For a minute, Theon’s mind stopped trying to piece together what had happened. It didn’t matter. Robb was here. Sansa was here. He thought he’d maybe seen Jon too. He stared into Robb’s face. “You said I should call you if I needed something,” he said. “I need this moment to never end.”

Robb chuckled softly. “I’m afraid I can’t stop time. Is there something else I can do?”

“You can get your hands off him.”

All eyes—which turned out to be Robb, Sansa, Jon, Myranda, Alyn, Damon, Skinner, and Jeyne, the latter lying in a sea of broken teacups and spilled tea—turned to Ramsay, still pinned against the wall.

“He’s mine,” Ramsay ground out through gritted teeth. “He entered into a geas with _me_. Willingly, I might add. You have no claim over him.”

Robb’s face became the picture of fury. “Release him from your geas and I’ll go easy on you for lying to me.”

Ramsay just laughed. His underlings shifted uncomfortably.

“Fine,” Sansa said calmly. “ _I_ will release him from your geas by crushing your throat.”

She must have tightened her grip, because Ramsay’s eyes bulged. He began to gargle in the back of his throat, and he kicked out with his legs. Theon could only think of all the times Ramsay had choked him. Was that how he had looked? Pathetic and weak?

“Stop!” Myranda shrieked. “You’re going to kill him.”

Sansa regarded her with uninterested eyes. Gave a half-shrug. “He has slighted royalty of the Seelie Court. It’s my right.”

Myranda glanced around nervously, gnawed on her lip. She looked to be debating something.

Ramsay’s face took on a decidedly blue hue.

“There is no geas!” Myranda cried, yanking harshly on her own hair.

All eyes turned to her. Even Ramsay’s, though he continued to kick and struggle in Sansa’s grasp.

“There’s no geas,” Myranda repeated, quieter this time. “A mortal can’t place a geas on another mortal.”

Theon blinked, not sure he had heard correctly.

Jon voiced all their thoughts. “What?”

“Ramsay…” Myranda gestured helplessly towards him. “He’s not a fae. He’s a mortal.”

“No,” Robb said. “I’ve known Ramsay for years. I would be able to tell.”

Myranda sighed. “His earring.”

Sansa tilted her head and with her free hand reached out for the bloodstone earring Ramsay wore at all times. When Ramsay tried to pull away from her, she simply grabbed hold of it and yanked it clear off his ear, taking a chunk of flesh with it. He howled.

Immediately, all the fae’s eyes widened, though Theon couldn’t see any change except that his eyes were gray, not the same pale blue as Roose’s. Sansa dropped him. He fell, sputtering, to the ground.

“An obscuring spell?” Robb breathed. “All this time…Ramsay’s been a mortal?”

Ramsay gave Myranda a death glare. “I’m not just any mortal, you know.”

“You’re a changeling,” Jon breathed, recognition dawning on his face. “ _My_ changeling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations to anyone who saw that coming.
> 
> We're nearing the end. Only one chapter and an epilogue left.


	20. Chapter 20

Theon had never been into Roose’s solar, even to clean it. It was off limits. His first glimpse of it was when Robb kicked the door in, hauling Ramsay in by the scruff of his neck. Roose looked up from his tea with Barbrey. Neither seemed particularly alarmed by the intrusion.

Robb tossed Ramsay to the floor. “You owe us an explanation, Lord Bolton.”

Theon hung back with Jeyne. Sansa, Robb, and Jon may have proven themselves friendly, but they were still fairies nonetheless. Very angry fairies.

Roose’s eyes roved over Ramsay, taking in his bloody ear, then to Myranda, whom Sansa had by the upper arm. With a sigh, he set his tea in its saucer on the table. “I knew this would happen eventually.” He cast his cold eyes on Myranda, who would not meet his gaze. “Who else knows?”

“Skinner and Alyn and Damon,” Myranda muttered.

Roose nodded to Barbrey. “Take care of them.”

A wicked grin appeared on Barbrey’s face. “Ah, you’re finally letting me have a bit of fun.” With that, she stood and glided from the room, closing the door behind her.

Roose folded his hands in his lap and turned to address them. “Where shall we begin?”

Robb pointed an accusing finger at Roose. “You stole Jon from his crib.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me, you—”

“Princess Lyanna brought him to me.” Roose’s voice was calm, and yet it cut through Robb’s tirade as cleanly as a knife. Robb dropped his accusing finger and folded his arms over his chest, a clear sign he was allowing Roose to continue, though not happily. “She told me the babe was a product of her affair with the King of the Unseelie, and that she wished for me to hide him from Cersei.”

“You?” Sansa asked dubiously.

“I am of Cersei’s court. She would have little reason to suspect me of harboring her husband’s bastard child.” He gave a small shrug. “Princess Lyanna had good reason to be frightened. You remember what Cersei did when she discovered Rhaegar’s infidelity.”

All the fae gave each other knowing looks, except Jon.

“What?” he finally asked.

“She turned him into living stone,” Robb answered, “and cast him into the deepest part of the ocean.”

“For running around behind her back?” Sansa scoffed. “Cersei’s affairs are well-documented. Joffrey isn’t even Rhaegar’s son.”

“Not for his affair, no,” Roose corrected, steepling his fingers. “But for producing a child to threaten her son’s right to the throne. After she disposed of Rhaegar and Lyanna, she went searching for the child. You can imagine, I did not feel inclined to be next on her list.” He inclined his head towards Jon. “However, I could not simply get rid of the child. That would cast…suspicion my way. To have a child one day and not the next. And so…I gave the task to one of my servants.” His cold eyes bored in Myranda.

“I...found a house in the village with a new babe,” Myranda stuttered out, still not looking at any of them. “One without any wards. And I…swapped them out.”

“Ramsay,” Theon murmured. “From Ramsgate.”

“He was raised as Lord Roose’s half-breed child,” she sniffled.

Ramsay glowered at them all hatefully.

“Then how do you…?” Jeyne shrank back as everyone turned to look at her. “H-how did he perform fairy magic?”

“I’ve been performing magic for him since he was a child,” Myranda said. “Whenever he needed a spell done….” She looked to Theon. “Transporting you both to Fairy.” She looked to Jeyne. “Putting a silencing hex on you.” She sighed. “There was never any geas.”

Theon felt like his whole world was crumbling out from underneath him. All this time he’d lived in fear of Ramsay because of the geas.

No…no, that wasn’t right. He’d been terrified of _Ramsay_. The geas had been almost like a comfort to him, a way out if he could ever gather the courage to do it. Looking back, if he’d known there had been no magic keeping him in Ramsay’s thrall, it wouldn’t have mattered. Perhaps he might have disobeyed Ramsay’s orders, but…no. No, he would have obeyed Ramsay anyway.

It suddenly felt as if a heavy chain had been removed.

“So,” Roose said, “I apologize for my son’s disrespect, Your Majesties, but I do hope there’s a way we can keep this little secret between us. I do not much relish the idea of Cersei finding out about my actions.”

“I bet not,” Robb grunted.

“Is there perhaps something I can offer you, in return for your silence?”

“We’re taking the mortals with us,” Sansa said.

“A given,” Roose responded. “But otherwise…” His eyes slid to Ramsay. “I did intend to punish my son for his actions at the Queen’s Ball last night, but perhaps you would prefer to lend a hand? Who’s to say what sort of punishment he’s earned for himself, eh?”

Ramsay’s eyes went wide.

“Let Theon decide what’s to become of him,” Robb said.

“Very well,” Roose said as everyone turned to Theon. Theon flinched at all their eyes. “Name my son’s punishment. You can even call for his life if you so choose. I won’t refuse.”

Ramsay swallowed and cast large puppy-dog eyes up at Theon. “Reek.”

“Don’t call me that!” Theon snapped.

Ramsay clamped his mouth closed.

Robb turned to Theon. “What do you say, Theon?”

Theon took a step forward and felt a definite sense of satisfaction in the way Ramsay flinched from him. “If you want to keep your worthless life,” he said, “you’re going to have to beg for it.”

Ramsay looked around, as if someone was going to tell him this was all a joke. The corners of his mouth sank downwards as he realized it wasn’t. He sat up, back on his haunches, and glowered at the floor. His ear and hand were still bleeding, and he seemed more focused on the blood on his clothes than the person in front of him.

“Please spare my life, Ree— _Theon_.”

“I’m sorry,” Theon said, “is that what passes for begging in the fairy realm?”

Ramsay’s eyes widened. He looked up. And around again. But it was clear nobody, not even Myranda, was coming to his aid.

He took a deep breath. “I know I don’t deserve your mercy, but if you could find it in your heart, would you please, _please_ …” It seemed to be physically hurting him to say such words, because he winced. “…spare my life?”

Theon pretended to consider for a moment. “What do you think, Jeyne? Was that good enough?”

Jeyne gave him a bewildered look. “Oh…um, I suppose it was alright,” she said.

Theon scratched at his head. “I don’t know.”

“I beg you on my knees,” Ramsay said, a real twinge of panic in his voice. “I am but a worthless worm. I am the dirt your boots tread on, beneath the dirt. If you see fit to let me live, I will be eternally grateful. I swear upon my life that I will never harm another mortal for as long as I live.”

Theon gave a dramatic sigh. “That’s enough.” He turned to Roose. “I’ve decided what punishment I want you to give him.”

 

***

 

Roose had once cursed a mortal man to suffer unbearable pain the presence of alcohol, because the man was an alcoholic and Roose, in his younger days, was easily amused.

It turned out it took only a slight reworking of the curse for Ramsay to suffer unbearable pain the presence of mortals. Theon never did learn whether that applied to himself or not.

 

***

 

Jon climbed into the carriage first. Then Sansa, helping Jeyne. Then Robb, who turned and held out a hand for Theon. Theon hesitated.

“What’s the matter?”

“I just…it’s hard to believe,” he admitted. “I don’t even know how long I lived with Ramsay.” If you could call all those years _living_.

“You’re free of him now,” Robb said. “Unless…that’s not what you want.”

“Oh, it is,” Theon said quickly. “I prayed each night that you would come for me and take me away. Just like this.”

Robb’s reassuring smile fell. “I’m sorry I was so late.”

Theon shook his head. He didn’t want Robb to feel guilty. “I just mean…I guess I’m having trouble convincing myself this is real.” He reached out for Robb’s hand.

Robb squeezed tight and pulled him up into the carriage. “This is real.”

They sat beside each other, across from the others. It was surprisingly spacious inside, much roomier than he would have guessed. The footman closed the door and a moment later they were off.

“The question now is…” Jon looked around at everyone. “What next?”

“I would…like to go home,” Jeyne said. She had her head in Sansa’s lap, Sansa gently running fingers through her matted hair.

“Of course,” Sansa said.

“And you?” Robb asked.

Theon looked down and realized their hands were still joined.

“I don’t have anywhere to go back to in the mortal realm,” he admitted. He had no family left, except perhaps Rodrik, but the thought that Rodrik would welcome him back was laughable. “No one’s waiting for me.”

“Then you’ll come to live with me at my court,” Robb announced. “If…that’s agreeable to you.”

“He’s just escaped a fairy court,” Sansa scolded. “And even if he still wanted anything to do with fairies, how do you think Mother and Father would respond?”

“They’d approve,” Robb said. “If you backed me up, if Jon backed me up…they’d approve.” He turned back to Theon. “I’ll understand if you have reservations, though.”

“I do have reservations,” Theon admitted.

“There will be no geas,” Robb said, almost pleadingly. “No magic or spells of any sort. You’ll be free to leave whenever you want.” He placed a hand on Theon’s cheek. It wasn’t warm, the way Ramsay’s was, but it was comforting in a way that gave Theon a warmth of his own. “Taking you out of that place was just making up for not finding you sooner. I still owe you a favor.”

Theon smiled. And all thoughts of Ramsay fled from him. “Take me with you, Robb. That’s what I want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a family tree I made to explain Jon's fairy heritage (fairitage?)
> 
> Basically, all the fairies were united under the First King, until he went crazy and was killed. Then his children formed the three courts. Rhaegar the Unseelie, Dany the Seelie, and Viserys the non-trooping fairies (the latter would go on to become known as solitary fairy Viserys.)
> 
> Anyway, see you guys for the epilogue.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you don't mind a few more fairy tale allusions in your epilogue.
> 
> Also, don't ask where I got the ship that's hinted at. (It came out of my ass, okay? I have a weakness for rare pairs, okay?)

Asha trudged through the woods, hacking at branches and ferns with her axe. Even though it was an enchanted axe, it didn’t cut even as well as a normal axe, which was irksome. Next time, she’d insist on a better payment for a good deed.

Fairy was such a confusing terrain to navigate. One minute it was spring, the next it was winter. Footpaths changed all willy-nilly. Asha had no idea how long she’d been wandering this accursed place, but she could really go for some meat right about now. That was the only thing she missed about the mortal realm.

She’d struck out on her own the day her father had kicked the bucket, and she’d yet to look back. If she’d realized just how much of a deadweight he’d been, she would have left much earlier. Theon had had the right idea of it, wherever he was and however it had worked out for him.

Up ahead, she heard scuffling. Animal scuffling. _Meat_ scuffling.

Asha hefted her axe and crept forward on silent feet. The animals in the fairy realm were clever, dangerous. She needed to be cleverer and dangerous…er. The scuffling became louder, and now she could hear a high-pitched voice. A child’s voice. “My, Auntie, what big ears you have.”

A gruff voice answered, “All the better to hear you with, my dear.”

Frowning, Asha inched forward, one ear pointed towards this strange conversation.

“My, Auntie, what big eyes you have.” The child couldn’t be older than four or five by the lisp.

“All the better to see you with, my dear.”

A giggle. Asha reached out to part the bushes ahead of her.

“My, Auntie, what big teeth you have.”

“All the better to _eat_ you with, my dear.”

Asha popped her head out to see a small boy in a red cloak running from a monstrous wolf. The beast was enormous, easily twice the size of a normal wolf, a thick slather dripped from its maw. The boy in the red cloak shrieked as he ran.

Without thinking, Asha sprang into the clearing, flailing her axe around with a mighty battle cry. Both the boy and the wolf spun around. The boy’s hood fell back, and Asha froze. Beneath the snow-white hair and pointed ears, she saw a hauntingly familiar face.

“Theon?”

But no, it couldn’t be. The boy was too young. He had white hair and pointed ears.

And as she took a hesitant step towards him, his eyes widened and he turned and darted off into the trees, disappearing into the wind.

Asha stood dumbly for a moment before realizing she still held her axe aloft.

“You frightened him off, you idiot,” a voice said.

Asha whirled. Where the enormous wolf had been before now stood a young woman with brown hair. Despite the grinning mask that covered her face, Asha felt a deep sense of disapproval from this young woman.

“Do you know how hard that boy is to find when he runs off?”

“I…thought you were attacking him,” Asha said, lowering her weapon.

“He’s my nephew,” the wolf woman said. “We were playing.”

“Well it _looked_ like you were trying to eat him,” Asha said in defense.

The woman cocked her head, and Asha got the distinct feeling she was studying her axe. “That’s a fae weapon.”

“Yeah, I got it for saving a fairy princess or some shit.” She didn’t really feel like going into the details with this strange woman.

Now it felt like the woman was smiling at her underneath her smiling mask. “So, you’re the one who woke Margaery Tyrell with a kiss. And…did I hear you say my brother-in-law’s name just a moment ago?”

Asha frowned. “Why the fuck would I know your brother-in-law?”

The wolf woman reached up and removed her mask. Her face was very plain underneath, for a fae, but her yellow eyes were anything but. Wolf’s eyes. They bored into Asha. Studied her. “So,” she said, “Theon is not the only Greyjoy who found his way into Fairy.”

Asha started at that. “You know my brother?”

“He’s my brother as well these days.” The wolf girl rolled her eyes. “A terrible idiot.”

“Sounds like Theon.” Asha set her axe on the ground. “So, the little ankle biter’s still alive.” She craned her neck to peer deeper into the woods, where the boy in the red hood had disappeared. “And making new little ankle biters, I take it?”

“He has made my brother very happy.”

“And is he happy?” Asha found she truly wanted to know.

“I believe he is.”

“That’s good.” She allowed a small smile to grace her face.

“Would you like to see for yourself?”

Asha considered. “Maybe some other time,” she said at last, picking her axe back up. “I’m looking for someone.”

The young woman smiled knowingly. “Your princess?”

Asha thought of Margaery, how beautiful she had been when she’d first stumbled upon her in that clearing. How she’d been startled to find a woman asleep in the midst of a briar patch. How she’d hacked her way through to the sleeping beauty with an old axe that had been leaning against a tree. How Margaery wouldn’t wake up no matter how Asha shook her. She still couldn’t say what, exactly, had compelled her to kiss the unconscious woman, but her lips still tingled from it. Her heart still leapt when she remembered how the woman’s eyes had fluttered. How her perfectly red lips had broken into a smile as she opened her eyes and stared upon Asha with a sort of reverence.

And all she had to show for the entire encounter was this dumb axe. Yeah, it was gold _now_ , and enchanted, whatever that meant. But it wasn’t what Asha _wanted_.

“He will want to know that you are alive and well,” the wolf girl said, bringing Asha out of her reverie. “Your brother, I mean.” She cocked her head. “You _are_ well, aren’t you?”

Asha ran her hands along her chest, as if searching for some sort of arrow wound or something that might indicate she was _un_ well. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him…” Asha thought for a moment. Somewhere in the forest, she thought she heard a child’s laughter. “Tell him I hope he lives happily ever after.”

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading and/or leaving kudos and comments. You guys keep me posting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments and concrit are always welcome.


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